7 Years, 6 Months, 4 Days
by TMBlue
Summary: Hermione tries to cope with life after Ron's death, but what if all she thought she knew about what happened to him so many years ago was a lie?
1. 6 Years, 1 Month, 12 Days

_**A/N:**_ _So, here are all the things I should share with you about this fic. It is rounding the corner on being completely finished, but I'm going to post one chapter at a time (once a week) so I can have a chance to go through each one again before I post it and see if it needs any editing. It is sitting at 10 chapters right now, unless I expand on something. I actually rarely edit, but I pretty much wrote this whole thing at a frantic pace after a crazy R/Hr smut dream I had while traveling abroad… and it's a scary fic for me to have even written at all, so I have major hang ups *bites nails*..._

 _Now, here's the main thing, which is a huge warning before you proceed. This isn't a very original concept for a fic in that it is a trope (or two, actually) of sorts that has been done a lot before, I'm sure. I haven't actually_ read _many stories that use this concept, but that's largely because I also feel uncomfortable about it in general, which is why I'm warning you now:_

 _ **Hermione will be with other guys in this story.**_

 _Oh man, I said it. I typed that out. I am a bad person._

 _There is a good reason for it, but that is also kind of an obvious plot device, and I don't expect anyone to think I did any great thing with the concept here. This was basically written as a dump of what was swirling around in my head at the time, and, while I tried to write it well, I really don't expect that this is for everyone._

 _There will be lots of smut, there will be lots of Ron/Hermione, but you have been warned now._

 _I do hope you enjoy the angst and the smut, if you choose to proceed! x_

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE:  
** **6 Years, 1 Month, 12 Days**

"Why don't you order something else?"

The tall man with sandy blond hair who sat across from Hermione gestured toward the bar, encouraging her with a grin. She looked down at her almost empty wine glass, swirling the contents around, eyes blurring out of focus for a second before she shook her head.

"I should go home soon, Duncan," she said, in a low voice, possibly making it difficult for him to hear her under the sounds of the music and loud conversations around them. The pub was busy for a Thursday night. But he must have figured her out enough to make a guess, even if it was the wrong one, because he took a long swig of his beer and reached for her hand.

"I'll take you back."

Her stomach gave a lurch, and she squeezed his hand out of reflex, the wrong response, she realised, because it only made him think she wanted him more.

"I think I should go alone," she said, chest clenching at his mildly frustrated expression.

"Why do you keep seeing me then?" he asked, possibly a bit more spitefully than intended. He wasn't a bad person, really. She should explain, only she couldn't. She'd probably never be able to.

"Don't do that," she sighed as she stood, tossing Muggle money to their table and taking his arm to lead him outside.

The still summer air was scorching and humid, even well past midnight, and she willed herself not to recall _that_ night, that last night in _his_ bed before-

"I really don't understand you," Duncan said, interrupting her thoughts, reminding her all too quickly of her present reality. The cool sheets of her bed were what she needed now… solitude and silence.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I wouldn't blame you if you were through-"

"Just think about what you want, Hermione."

God, if only he knew the weight of such a statement, the sinking feeling that consumed her. She couldn't trust her voice, so she let go of him and nodded, moving quickly to duck behind a row of trees, turning on the spot with a sharp crack.

Her dark room swam into focus as her feet touched the floor, and she released the breath she'd held from Apparating, toeing off her heels and reaching for the hem of her dress with shaking hands, pulling it off over her slender, mildly malnourished body and dropping it to the floor. In only her bra and knickers, she slid into bed, curling onto her side, legs tucked up, reaching for an extra pillow to clutch tightly to her chest and face, stifling her shaky breathing through cotton and feathers. That familiar, painful lump lodged deep in her throat, and she fought against tears as long as she could… until she no longer cared, gripping the top of her pillow like the shaggy ginger hair at the top of his head, digging her nails into the memory of his scalp.

* * *

It had been a month since he'd woken up. He knew, because after those first few days, he'd decided he ought to keep track. He'd lost six fucking years to darkness. The reality was as distant as the sound of his own name from the lips of the man who had found him, the one who had gripped his dirty ginger hair in a tight fist to raise his aching head from the stone slab they'd called his resting place.

"It really worked," the man had said. "It fucking worked!"

It had taken Ron Weasley three weeks to understand this statement and piece together the moments that had changed his life irreversibly.

Now, all he could do was replay that final day of freedom, six years ago, desperate to find a weakness or a clue, some way to orient himself to _this_ place… _this_ time. His desire was singular. He had to escape. No one was looking for him, not now. He would not be saved.

Harry and Hermione thought he was dead. His whole family, everyone… thought he was dead.

Some days he even thought so himself, steel walls and no way out, no windows, no time, no outside light, no wand. Other days, he thought he would make it, because it was the only thing he could think and still open his eyes all the way, still find strength.

It had been a peaceful spring afternoon, those six short years ago. They'd won a war, lost so many, but she was holding his hand and not letting go. The sky was bright and nearly cloudless as he'd told her some small version of how she made him feel. They'd left the Burrow in the middle of May, and he'd held a confidence he couldn't share just then, that she was bloody brilliant and would absolutely find her parents, set them straight. He'd be with her, every moment she'd let him, and, together, they would bring them home.

But, as they'd approached their Portkey, alone, her hand was trembling in his, and he hadn't wanted her to feel the boundless pressure he knew consumed her even more virally when she thought someone believed in her too strongly. Her confidence was built now by silence and presence, two things he'd been discovering he was actually bloody good at. At least that's what she'd told him, over and over, stroking his hair with small fingers, erupting gooseflesh across his shoulders, down his spine.

And so, as he'd squeezed her hand once more, he'd leaned down to press his lips to hers, drawing back just in time to reach forward, together, to touch the cracked vase that had been made into a Portkey to Sydney.

The world had swam out and back into focus. Too quickly. Her hand had loosened in his, and he'd lost her grip completely, immediately realising that something had gone terribly wrong. His chest had suddenly caved, as if he'd been kicked, and he'd recognised the feeling as a stunning spell as he'd helplessly watched her fall to her back, on the ground, in the middle of the dense woods where they had been wrongly transported. He'd tried to open his mouth to scream, but no sound had come out, and he'd been frozen… then roughly dragged backward, away from her, by someone he hadn't been able to see.

His limp hand had fallen so close to his back pocket, and he'd frantically willed his fingers to move, to reach for his wand. But he'd been forced down a slope and out of her sight, listening in paralysed fear to the sounds of her panicked coughing before-

"RON!"

Every curse he knew had flown through his brain, willing _anything_ to wordlessly work. He'd heard the shuffling of several sets of feet behind him, and he'd become aware of an argument between two or three people before he'd tried to blur his vision, focused on forcing one word to the front of his mind, over and over.

 _Stupefy!_

The hand clutching the back of his jumper had fallen immediately slack, and Ron had felt his body go weightless as he'd no longer been supported.

"Graham!" another nearby voice had shouted.

It had _worked_.

But Ron had quickly been caught by two large men rushing forward, and he'd finally been able see their ruddy, filthy faces. They'd scowled at him, and he'd known he had to be quick as they searched him for his wand.

 _Hermione. Hermione._

"RONNN!"

"Stop the girl," one of the men had demanded, just as Ron had regained the use of his left foot. He'd dug his heel into the dirt and strained against the effects of the stunner, finally forcing a hand into a fist.

And then, he'd seen it, lying on the forest floor… the body of a man who, at first glance, looked so much like him it was staggering. A man who had been burned to death, his face and skin black and charred. But, his hair… ginger and ashy and cut just like Ron's.

"Get his wand, Charlie. Now!"

 _Stupefy. STUPEFY._

But it had been too little too late. He'd felt his wand roughly yanked from his back pocket, and, before he'd braced himself, he'd watched as yet another man had rushed forward with a rock the size of his head... and he'd slammed it down, hard.

The world had gone instantly, terrifyingly, black.

He could remember nothing after that moment. Nothing… until that stark, hollow day, more than 6 years ago now, when he'd opened his eyes to the sight of a man he'd thought he'd almost recognised, watching him with wide eyes.

The next few hours had blurred with words, disbelief predominating as they'd told him how long he'd been asleep. That everyone thought he was dead. And their plan had worked, somehow, even years later. The most important part of this information was the brief mention of Hermione, the perhaps accidentally revealed fact that she was alive and well. A deep relief flowed through him, even in his desperate situation. All that ever mattered was her, Harry, his family. He could do anything now, knowing they were alright. His captors had only meant for Hermione to witness the attack, see the body they'd planted, report it as Ron, spread the word. They had never expected the blow to his head to put him in a bloody six year long coma, but they'd waited… and, now, he was back. Awake. Alive.

He'd learned that the man who had hit him was dead, had been murdered for fucking up their scheme. It had taken another week to learn the reason for their elaborate method of kidnapping, faking his death… He was meant to belong to them now, a tool for their use. They'd touched his scars, the ones that ran in swirls over his forearms from his run-in with those bloody brains in the Department of Mysteries, so many years ago.

They'd told him he would "meet her soon," and he'd been waiting. Waiting and thinking and planning and memorising. Every movement they made, every word they said… he would find a way out. He would find a way home.

* * *

The vividness of her nightmares never ceased to surprise her.

Hermione was standing in front of her bathroom sink, brushing her teeth with a shaking hand, staring at her reflection and reciting her most recent presentation for work inside her head, on loop, as a furious distraction. The healers said she should be better than this by now, not still seeing such clear visions of his unrecognisably burned face and body, singed hair, charred wand in his hand… But they were wrong, she supposed. The guilt would sometimes bubble up inside, knowing that she simply _wanted_ to stay here in sorrow, that forgetting him was far more painful than what she felt now… even worse than seeing him dead in her dreams.

At least he was still there with her. And she could never let that go.

For the first few months, she'd had a recurring dream that he was still alive… that they'd _buried him alive_ … and, more than once, she'd rushed to his grave, pressed her ear to the ground, and held her breath.

Now, she didn't go there often at all. The healers had said it was for the best. But, it seemed to make no difference. Potions for depression, anxiety, dreamless sleep… Food tasted bland, her work felt unimportant more often than not, and her attempts at social events mostly ended in craving the solitude of her tiny flat, surrounded by books, blurring words on every page as her eyes watered, shifting out of focus.

A knock on her door shook her from her thoughts - she had been expecting Harry for breakfast - and she spit into the sink, watching water swirl down the drain, clearing her throat to call out.

"Come in!"

* * *

Ginny sat across from her at dinner, that night, Hermione still in her work clothes and Ginny in her practice uniform for Quidditch, having just left the field. The restaurant was Friday night crowded, and Hermione was never quite sure at first if she'd rather be lost in noise or silence, so she let herself fade as someone came by to refill their drinks. But then she knew Ginny had a lot to talk about, and she felt a bit lost as her friend began to speak, trying to resurface.

It was an hour before his name came up.

"How's it going with Duncan?" Ginny asked around a large bite of warm bread.

"I don't know," Hermione answered truthfully, stabbing at a piece of tomato in her salad, finding it hard, as usual, to work up an appetite.

"Well, didn't you see him last night?"

"Yeah. But I went home alone and frustrated him."

Ginny scoffed and took another bite of her bread.

"That sounds bloody rude. You've been out, what, a couple of times?"

"At least a dozen…"

Ginny's eyes widened, and she stopped eating to stare across at Hermione.

"Oh."

"It's not that I don't like him…" Hermione's soft voice trailed off, and she sighed. "Ginny, I don't want to do this."

"What, go out with Duncan? So, just call it off-"

"No. Any of it. I don't want to pretend I'm fine and see other people…"

Ginny's face melted to an expression of thinly masked concern, and she took a few moments to finally speak again.

"I can't pretend to understand exactly how you feel."

Hermione closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry at dinner.

"But I care too much about you to see you just… stuck," Ginny went on, sniffing. "Harry, too. Sometimes he's okay. Sometimes he can't really cope with it. But he's… I mean it's different for him, innit? I know it doesn't help to tell you to try. Bloody healers don't understand what it's like."

Hermione opened her eyes again simply to stare down at the pattern of the tablecloth.

"I'm still taking my potions."

"Are you? That's good. But they aren't helping?"

"I don't know. Maybe it'd be even worse without them…"

She saw, in her periphery, that Ginny's hand had extended halfway across the table in her direction, and she knew that Ginny was worried… probably more than she was letting on. She really needed to pull herself together, she thought. But she was at war with herself, wanting to swim deeper and deeper in memories, yet unable to surface long enough to live.

"The Harpies put me up at a nice place in Holyhead tonight," Ginny started, and Hermione finally looked back up at her friend, "you know, since we've got practice so early before that game tomorrow. Why don't you come stay with me. We can order champagne and charge it to the team…"

Ginny attempted a smirk, but it came across more as a pitying grimace.

"Thank you… but I think I just need some time alone," Hermione said softly. "I'll be okay."

"I'm not gonna be an arse and say it'll all be alright, because I know it won't. But I do think it'll get better."

She wouldn't argue, if only because she didn't really have it in her to bother. Instead, she'd try to make an effort to get lost in work again, something she could manage to do when she really focused. She almost regretted that she had two full days before Monday. At least she'd be able revise her latest report, maybe finally get around to cleaning her flat. And she was comforted by habits and routines, for now, a list of calculated distractions creating order from darkness.

* * *

They often left him alone for hours and hours at a time. And, when they did come by with small bits of food and water, it was never one or two of them alone, but at least three at once. He wondered if he'd actually scared them with wandless, nonverbal magic, but it wasn't as if he had any idea why it had worked… how he'd been able to stun someone without touching his wand or saying a word.

But now, without a wand, locked in a square room with metal walls and no windows, no visible seams… he was seeing no other way out. He'd done it once. Maybe… maybe he could do it again.

He started by thinking back, trying to recall those early charms lessons from first year. Simple ones, he thought, and he could learn how to control it... assuming he'd be successful at all. But all he really had to do, when he felt the desperate hollowness creep up, threatening to make him give up, was think of his past, of what he'd been ripped away from and left behind. He had to do it… He had to make it back.

 _Wingardium Leviosa! - You're saying it wrong._

The charm was in his head before he understood why… and then he was smiling. Her bossy little voice was all he could hear. He could still feel her wild hair brush his face as she'd sharply turned her head, and he remembered how he'd grimaced and rolled his eyes, back then.

Now, he actually laughed, a raspy, odd sound from his dry throat as he lay down on the rough, stone surface that was raised above the ground, the one on which he'd woken a month ago to find his whole life-

No. He wouldn't think of that. He closed his eyes and recalled her voice again. But, this time, much more recent, just minutes before that first kiss...

 _Wasn't it absolutely brilliant? - He was amazing!_

He breathed deeply, lulled by his memories, and he could almost escape this place, run away in his mind to his bed at the Burrow, her small, cool hands on his skin. He let himself stay there, for just a little while… let himself remember.

 _She followed him up the stairs to his room, and he was so relieved he didn't have to ask. He wanted her to stay, but he had no idea how to say the words. She must have been as nervous as he was, because once he'd closed his door and they were alone, he could see her trembling in the moonlight that was softly flowing through his open curtains._

" _I'm so sorry," she said. "So, so sorry."_

 _They'd buried his brother that day. But he didn't want to talk about that now. He took a step closer, almost close enough to feel her breath on his face as she tilted her head back to look up at him._

" _You're here," he whispered. "I'm okay."_

 _Stray tears slipped silently free from her shining eyes, rolling down her cheeks almost as if she didn't notice them. Maybe they'd cried too much these last few days. He wanted to look forward, instead of feeling trapped in grief. He wanted to hold her. But he had to be sure._

" _Can I… kiss you again?"_

 _She nodded, giving no moment's hesitation between his question and her answer._

 _He reached out to hold her face in one, large hand, studying the perfect lines and curves he'd memorised long ago. But he'd never been able to look for this long. He felt heat rise up the back of his neck, but he didn't look away. She reached up to wrap thin fingers loosely around his wrist, eyes never leaving his. And he ducked, closing the final distance between them as he pressed his mouth to hers._

He opened his eyes, tears brimming. That was enough. More than enough for one day. Swiping his knuckles beneath his eyes to dry them, he recalled the words he had to focus on, to bring to the surface through a whirlpool of rage and love and wild magic.

He sat up, spotting a small pebble that had broken loose from the old, stone floor, and he stared, unblinking.

 _Wingardium Leviosa. Wingardium Leviosa._

There was no movement, not yet, but he hadn't expected there to be. It could take all he had, but he would give exactly that much. No less.

A noise outside the only door drew his attention across the room. Footfalls, voices. They were coming.

What if he could open that door? There were no locks he could see, no knobs or hinges visible. It was being opened with magic, alone, he assumed. What spell could it be, which lock, which shield, which wards were keeping him here? But he could start at the beginning, with another engraved memory… first year, as Filch had been coming down the corridor to find them, and he'd thought they'd be caught for sure.

 _Oh, move over. - Alohomora!_

* * *

Hermione made her way through Saturday night's crowded pub, searching for familiar faces. The Harpies had won, and Ginny was out celebrating. As Hermione squeezed between a large group of wizards by the bar, she spotted the familiar back of Harry's head… and then, to her surprise, there was Duncan, sitting next to Ginny and in the midst of a conversation. They couldn't see her as she approached, and she began to overhear their words as she moved closer.

"But she's just so… distant when I'm with her, you know?" Duncan was saying. "She's your close friend, maybe you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know-"

"It's just… one minute she seems interested and the next I can tell she wants to be as far away as she can from wherever we are. It's bloody confusing. She's unpredictable. "

"Well, wouldn't _you_ be, after what she's been through?"

Ginny had stepped right up to _that_ line, and Hermione pushed forward to reach them in one quick stride.

"Been through?" Duncan asked, perplexed.

"Ginny."

Hermione's warning voice sounded out over Harry's conversation as well, and he turned to look at her as she stepped between Ginny's chair and Duncan's, staring down at Ginny, feeling her face heat up. Ginny studied her carefully, a bit surprised at Hermione's sudden appearance but clearly more confused by the specific tone of her interruption.

"Damn," Ginny said, reading her well. "You haven't told him?"

Hermione shook her head in a way that felt almost frantic, and she could sense Duncan standing up behind her.

"What's going on?" he asked, and Hermione shut her eyes with a swear beneath her breath.

"I won't tell him," Ginny insisted, but Hermione slowly opened her eyes again and shook her head.

"Go ahead. No point hiding it."

She moved around to take a seat on the other side of the table, wishing she could disappear through the floor but also knowing this was, on some level, for the best. As she stared down at the grain of the wood tabletop, she could feel Ginny's gaze on her for a long moment before she heard her voice again.

"My brother and Hermione were…"

Hermione swallowed, waiting for the words her friend would choose to describe something she had never been able to quite put into words herself.

"They grew up together, they were best friends with Harry... they were in love," Ginny finished, softly, "and he died, about six years ago now."

"Oh, God," Duncan said, sympathetically. "I didn't know."

"I know you didn't," Hermione answered, wishing she didn't sound so snappy. She'd never told him because she hadn't wanted him to know, maybe in part because it had felt like a confession, or because it had been too hard to face the words at all, and that wasn't his fault.

"Hermione," Ginny said, leaning across the table, "I'll get you a drink. What do you want?"

"Whatever you're having."

Ginny stood and left them, and Hermione tried not to move away as Duncan scooted his chair around the table, close enough to her that they could speak and not be overheard by Harry and the others who had returned to their own conversations on the opposite side.

"If you don't want me to be here, just say-"

"You aren't involved in this. It's my own problem."

There was a long pause during which she was sure he _would_ just leave. But he didn't. He was studying her, and she looked over sadly to meet his eyes.

"I wish you'd told me," he said, quietly. "I might have been a git to you by mistake. I didn't know what you were going through."

"I'm sorry. I really am."

"I know."


	2. 6 Years, 5 Months, 18 Days

_**A/N:** So, I suppose one downside to writing something so frantically and quickly is that you overlook problems with your own timeline! Without spoiling too much, I was only really paying attention to Rose, because I just honestly forget about Harry & Ginny's kids, most of the time, and it occurred to me as I was editing this chapter that they would have already had James by this point, if I was making any kind of effort to stick with canon. But… I sort of reasoned with myself that this can't really be canon, either way, because I don't think everyone would just go on with their lives at the same speed if they thought Ron was dead. So… in this story, we have diverged fully from canon. I also added a bit more about Harry and Ginny's relationship to a later chapter, to kind of compensate for that._

 _Oh, one quick note that I am including dates at the top of each chapter now, which represent the day in the first segment, not the day through the whole chapter, as many of these will take place over several days or more._

 _Okay, onward! Thanks so much to everybody that already read and reviewed chapter one! I'm so please that you are enjoying the angst. I apologize in advance for this chapter being perhaps a bit worse in that respect than chapter one..._

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWO:  
** **6 years, 5 months, 18 days  
** **Saturday, 30 October 2004**

She wasn't waiting for him.

A little thunderstorm rolled, chanting _six years, six years_. He could easily lose hope, imagining what her life had been since he'd disappeared. No, since he'd _died_. She could be married, have sodding kids by now… He could choose to face the likely reality that she had moved on.

But, instead, he played a little game where he could feel her arms around him when he was finally free.

 _Wingardium Leviosa._

He was lying on his back, ignoring stiff muscles and stinging scratches from tossing over in his sleep on rough stone. Something was happening soon, he knew… They'd talked about _her_ again, and he'd remained silent, holding back the million questions flowing through him, knowing it was better to wait, better to play the part of a weak, compliant hostage, let them let their guard down.

 _Wingardium Leviosa._

He sat up and stared at his pebble on the floor, willing it to move with all his focus. But, it remained there, and he slowly closed his eyes.

 _Windgardi-_

The door scraped open, and he jumped slightly as he opened his eyes again to stare across the room at the three men who walked through. He knew their names. He'd been paying attention. Graham - the one he had stunned during his capture, who was now mysteriously missing two fingers from his right hand. Isaac - an older wizard, tall and thin, with a peppered black and white beard and dark eyes. Charlie - a man who bore no resemblance to Ron's brother but had a rough, scarred face and sunken eyes, bald head and calloused hands… Today, Charlie was clutching the arm of a small girl with long, dark hair, who could be no older than early teens.

The door slammed shut, echoing loud as the girl flinched. Ron's heart beat faster, suddenly terrified that she was in danger, too. Maybe he'd been completely blind, maybe he wasn't the only one. How many others had they taken?!

"Weasley," hissed Charlie, a menacing grin slowly sliding into place as he tugged the girl forward. "This is Evelyn. And you can read her mind."

Confused, he stared at the girl for a long moment, her almond shaped eyes meeting his, and he felt a strange chill run down his spine. Who _was_ this girl? But there was one thing for sure, one thing he knew without a doubt. They'd made some kind of mistake.

"No, I can't."

Before he'd taken his next breath, Isaac's bony fist had pummeled Ron's cheekbone, causing him to stumble sideways, his left elbow slamming into the stone slab on which he still sat.

"You can," Isaac said, in that impossibly low voice that made Ron's skin crawl. "Show him."

Charlie roughly turned Evelyn around until her back was toward Ron, and Ron tried to sit back up straight, to see properly. He could taste metallic blood in his mouth from where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek. But, all of a sudden, Graham reached out and tugged Evelyn's long hair over her shoulder, revealing a scar that had left a strip of her scalp bald in an upward, swirling line. And Ron understood, stomach sinking. _His_ arms. _His_ scars. Isaac was staring at them with a narrow glare, confirming what he'd guessed. They'd both been attacked by the same thing, and these men thought- But _why_? Why did they need him to read the mind of a teenage girl?

"We're going to ask her what we need to know," Charlie said, "and you're going to tell us what she thinks."

Okay. So, she must have been uncooperative in their previous efforts to force the information from her. Was he their last resort? What did she know that they needed so desperately? And what happened when he failed, because there was still the minor obstacle of Ron having absolutely no bloody idea how to read someone's mind, scars or no. What had Harry said about his lessons in Occlumency and Legilimency?

"When's your birthday?" Graham asked the scrawny girl who was still staring at Ron in an oddly disconcerting way.

She said nothing, eyes narrowing the tiniest bit, and Ron had the impression she was trying to block him from finding the answer. Fortunately for her, he had no idea how to find it, anyway. But, he had to do something. He stared back, betting on making it strongly appear that he was working hard to do as they had asked.

"Weasley." Isaac's stern face glared down at him, cast in shadow from his straggly hair falling forward, his head blocking Ron's face from the only light in the room, a single candle that had nearly burnt out.

"I'm not getting anything," Ron said, voice scratchy and raw. His head was pounding, and he was lightheaded from lack of food… dehydration. But he focused all he could on this, on something impossible they thought he could do. He had to string them along, at least until he could figure out how to-

Charlie grasped the back of Evelyn's robes, hard, almost lifting her off the ground.

"She's doing something to stop him, yeah?" Charlie growled, knuckles white as he gripped her robes tighter still.

"Maybe he really doesn't know how to use it," Graham suggested, watching Ron carefully.

"Get up," Isaac insisted, giving Ron no time to move before he yanked his arm and tugged him off his stone slab, forcing him to stumble to the ground on his knees. "Move her closer," and he gestured to Charlie who forced Evelyn to move forward, mere inches away from Ron. Her face was nearly level with his now, her sharp features lit in deep contrast as the light behind her flickered.

"When were you born?" Graham rephrased, voice lower and more urgent, his growing temper fully evident in his tense shoulders and face.

Ron was certain this would not work, that it would end in his face and body being pounded again by a fist or two, a forced fasting period of several days, as they'd done to him before when he'd asked a simple question, something he'd learned not to do unless necessary… or unless he'd made a mistake.

But, he put all he had into the task he'd been given, as impossible as it felt. The girl, he was realising, believed it could be possible, and that was enough to give him pause… to make him wonder…

He stared, unblinking, willing her words to the surface. And then, beyond anything he had hoped could happen, he heard it.

 _...October..._

Like the faintest whisper through a long, echoing corridor. It was unclear, at best, but he could mold the distant sounds only he could hear into one word, to start. He forced his face to remain unphased and blank, though his heart was pounding.

 _When's your birthday?_

He felt himself ask the question without speaking, and then her eyes narrowed fiercely. She was going to answer him, against her will.

 _5th of October, 1991._

* * *

Hermione was standing in the middle of Duncan's flat, a glass of Firewhisky in her hand.

It had been a long, long time since she'd drank so much. Once, in a bittersweet time at the Burrow, shortly after Fred's burial, but… but if she let those memories swirl to life, she'd hear _his laugh_ and see his glistening eyes crease as he smiled at her, and she couldn't-

She squeezed her eyes shut and took another long sip of her drink.

The second time had been worse, much worse, and had lasted for months. June, July, August had vanished in a sea of unending, indistinguishable nights, mornings she hadn't seen, waking late into the afternoon to start again.

"Need another?"

Duncan appeared from the kitchen, eyes flicking down to her almost empty glass.

"No. Thank you," she said, hoping her smile looked less like a grimace than it felt. She knew what she was here for, and she suspected Duncan must as well. She'd only been here twice before, but never so late at night.

She wasn't going to move on if she didn't… move on. It was fortunate, really, that Duncan hadn't given up on her when she'd gone a month without speaking to him. But, their relationship - or whatever she could call it - had remained casual and mostly void of emotion, save that one conversation at the pub, about her past. She should probably be somewhat concerned with feeling nothing, but, instead, it made it just a bit easier to think she could do this… It was just a matter of choosing to take steps consecutively forward, instead of constantly fleeing backward.

"Want to sit down?"

"Can we go to your room?"

The words were out before she'd really thought them through, and he nodded, reaching to take her glass from her hand. He vanished through to the kitchen again, and she didn't follow, recognising his need to keep things clean and tidy - no clothes on the floor, no dishes in the sink, no books out of place.

At least he couldn't be more different than-

His hand extended in front of her, startling her out of a daze, and she took it, following him down the hall to his bedroom.

He let go of her as they crossed into his room, and she watched him walk around to light the lantern by his bed as she tossed her messy hair over her shoulder. It had grown so very long now, nearly reaching her waist. But she wouldn't think about why she hadn't cut it, though. She couldn't.

Duncan returned to her, and they stood at the foot of his bed, sheets neatly tucked in under his mattress.

"Ever taken someone's virginity before?" she asked, gooseflesh coating her skin. He kept his flat quite cold, she noticed, but the thick blanket on his bed looked warm enough.

"Once," he admitted, "a few years ago."

"Make that twice, after tonight."

"Are you _really_?" he asked, shocked. "You've never-"

"Don't make fun of me, or I'll change my mind."

She hadn't meant to snap so fiercely, but her words were unguarded, and she didn't have the strength to fix them, not when all she had was focused on doing what she thought must be the right thing. After tonight, she couldn't look as far back. Not nearly so far, anymore.

"No, I'm not," he assured her. "Just surprised, is all… especially after what Ginny told me about her brother-"

"Please." Her voice cracked on the word. "Don't ever talk about that. I can't."

"Sorry."

"Maybe we could… not talk much at all, if that's alright."

"Yeah, that's fine."

He reached for her arm, holding her elbow in his hand, and she let his face blur out of focus as he ducked to kiss her.

* * *

She was banging frantically on the door. Ordinarily, she'd have refrained from such nonsensical behaviour, peacefully waiting for Harry to come let her inside. She'd have felt too self-conscious, on any other day, of Harry's neighbours overhearing her being hysterical. But tonight was not an ordinary night.

Harry wrenched open the door, a look of urgent concern etched across his face.

"Hermione, what-"

" _P-Please_ , can I c-come in?"

"Why are you asking? Just Apparate in if you need to. What's wrong?"

He stepped back, and she crossed by him, shaking head to toe, tears coating her face and blurring her vision.

"I _slept_ with him," she choked, as Harry closed the door behind her.

He turned around to face her, blinking.

"Who?"

Her eyes narrowed to creased slits as she tried to catch her breath to answer Harry's completely absurd question.

"Duncan!" she screeched, a full octave above her normal range. "Wh-who do you think?!"

"I don't know…" Harry muttered, pushing up his glasses in that nervous habit sort of way he often did now when he was dancing around the mention of… _him_. "I'm sorry."

And then, it occurred to her, that Harry thought she was caught up in the past, just now… and she felt her throat constrict intensely.

"You thought I meant-" She couldn't swallow, and Harry's flat was spinning. "Oh my God, I know what you th-thought, and that's exactly wh-why I'm here and why-" She broke off to attempt a breath that turned immediately to a cracking sob. "I never slept with Ron."

Harry visibly swallowed at the sound of his name.

"I didn't think you had, honestly, but-"

"Oh God, Harry," she sobbed, "I m-miss him _s-so_ _much_."

Harry blinked a bit rapidly and nodded.

"I know. I know... I do, too."

"It was supposed to be him." She was shaking like she hadn't done in months. "It was always going to be him, and now-" Her voice broke again, and there was suddenly only one thing she needed. "Harry, where's his trunk?"

"No." Harry's voice was firm as he shook his head, but he was obviously more consumed now by sorrow and pity than actually threatening to stop her. And she knew he'd give in. "Hermione, you shouldn't-"

"I need it, _please_!" she wailed, losing track of her own tears, hardly feeling fresh waves coat her face.

For a long moment, Harry stared at her in silence, his own eyes watering and glistening in lantern light. But she begged him again with her gaze, hands violently trembling at her sides, and he gave her one, quick nod before breaking away and crossing past her, toward his room.

She could acutely hear the ticking of the clock on the mantle, her own ragged breath following a completely dissonant rhythm. And then, seconds later, Harry emerged once more, holding a small, wooden box, the same size as the jewelry chest she'd had as a young child, but it took her no time at all to recognise it. He handed it to her, and she thanked him with another meeting of their eyes, unable to speak and risk one more wracking sob, one that might not let her breathe again. And, clutching Ron's shrunken trunk in her arms, she turned around and disappeared into the loo, locking herself inside.

* * *

She was wearing his clothes. It was stupid and irrational and probably unhealthy, but she'd stripped naked, taken a hot bath, and pulled on one of his t-shirts and a hand-knitted jumper, deep blue and constantly bringing out the much lighter colour of his eyes, even now… even...

The moment that had really broken her was finding her own pyjama trousers crumpled at the bottom of the trunk, and she honestly couldn't remember why they were there, but it didn't matter. She'd pulled them on, and they still fucking smelled like him, if she closed her eyes, and it was all she could do to stop the unending flow of tears for long enough to try and clear her mind to a canvas of nothing. But, someone was trying to get her attention. She blinked slowly, and her eyes slid to the door.

"Hermione?" Harry was calling from outside the loo, his gentle knocking turning more insistent as she remained silent. She had to answer him, she knew, even though her body and her voice felt useless. She blinked again, and a hot tear rolled down her just recently dried cheek.

She managed to pull herself up and cross to the door, opening it to reveal Harry's face, creased with concern. His eyes darted down, for a moment, taking in the sight of Ron's clothes on her body. And she knew what he was thinking.

"I'm sorry," she said, hoping to encompass the full scope of what those short words could mean.

"Don't do that. You know I understand. Just worried me how long you've been in there…"

She nodded and clutched the doorframe as Harry stepped back to let her out.

"Want a takeaway?" he asked, as she followed him slowly down the hallway toward the sitting room. "Thought I'd go out and grab something but didn't want to leave before I talked to you."

"Isn't it late?" she sniffed.

"Nearly midnight, but it's Saturday. There's fish and chips or that curry place we like."

"I'm not really hungry-"

"Curry it is. We'll share. You should eat something."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already standing by the door.

"Stay here," he added, and she sat heavily on the sofa. "I'll be back in a few."

She'd taken several bites, at Harry's insistence, and she supposed it was better to try than to think of her slightly nauseous stomach, ignoring the vague throbbing of her head from skipping too many meals.

But her thoughts swirled back to Duncan, after a while, unwillingly. She'd left him at his flat, and he'd not really asked her to stay over, anyway, but she still wasn't sure how she felt about leaving so quickly. She'd rather lock herself in her flat for the next few years than face speaking to him again, as impossible as she knew everything was going to be… but she didn't want to hurt him. He wasn't part of this, and it wasn't fair.

"I'm using him, and he knows it," she said, as Harry took a long drink of water. He shook his head and lowered his glass to the coffee table.

"You aren't, _really…_ "

"Harry."

She appreciated Harry's attempts to make her feel better, really… she did. She always had since… Well, they'd been the two people closest to… _him_. And they'd needed each other to cope, even when her raging tears had turned to angry words. Harry had never minded. They'd grown used to fighting over the years. But, right now, she knew the truth and had to face it. She probably shouldn't stick around like this, leading Duncan to believe she held anything more for him than a passing burden of needing to find a way to move on.

"Someone's got to be the first," Harry pointed out, slouching back into the sofa, next to her. "I know that sounds awful… but what else can you do?"

"I don't love him," she said, strong and clear.

"No one thought you did…" And Harry's eyes met hers as he shrugged. "Probably not even Duncan. Has he ever said it to _you_?"

"That he loves me?" She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. "No."

"Do you want him to?"

"Not at all," she cringed, "but I thought I was trying."

They sat in silence for several minutes, and she was actually starting to feel a bit tired in that hazy sort of way that resulted from crying too much, sore eyes and heavy limbs. She tucked up her knees loosely to her chest, jumper sleeves falling down over the backs of her hands. She shook one hand free, only to smooth her palm absentmindedly over the opposite sleeve.

"I'd just give you his trunk, you know…" Harry said, very quietly. "You should be the one to have it, anyway, but the healers said-"

"You keep it," she cut in, voice a bit raw. "I know where it is, and you'll keep it safe."

It was part of the process, people kept telling her, to let go. She wasn't supposed to cling to his things, still sleep in his clothes and call up constant images of his face when she closed her eyes.

"I know you're right, anyway," she sighed, staring down at her hands. "I shouldn't keep doing this. But… honestly, sometimes I just feel so sure I don't want to move on, that it's better this way. I'd rather lie in my bed in his clothes and think about the past than try to be with someone else. That's terrible…"

"I've got his watch in my top drawer. Does that make me mental?"

Her eyes slid up to meet Harry's, and she found him softly smiling.

"No… or we're mental together." She managed a smile in return, leaning back to rest her head on the sofa cushion behind her as Harry nodded and stood to clean up their dishes.

* * *

It was hard to sleep with a black eye, fractured jaw and bruised ribs.

He probably could have avoided it, but he'd never have done it blindly. And that's what he was, at least partially blind to what the hell they were playing at. He'd feigned not being able to read her mind at all, even as that whisper of a voice had so clearly resounded inside his own head. And they'd punished him for it.

At least he knew they wouldn't kill him now he understood a big part of why they needed him.

He took a deep breath and winced from pain, and he decided it might be alright to let go, just a bit…

Why was he fighting?

He thought of Quidditch with Harry at the Burrow, long days lying in summer grass, or those last few weeks of a school year, afternoons by the lake, half asleep as Hermione read through a stack of books under the shade of a tree.

He thought of Hermione's wavering smile when she'd try to hold back a grin at something ridiculous he had said, some joke he'd only really made to make her laugh.

He recalled times when the three of them had shared a late snack in the Common Room, after waiting up for Harry to come back from private lessons, or those quiet nights when Hermione had taken Ron through more of the castle than was probably required for their Prefect rounds, and he'd kept his mouth shut because he'd only wanted to spend more time alone with her.

And then, at last, he let his mind linger on the memory of that second kiss, the way she'd clung to his shirt collar with both hands, her teeth grazing his bottom lip as he'd tightened his forearm low around her waist, nearly lifting her off the ground again…

 _Her tongue touched his lips, and he stumbled slightly backward, not meaning to startle her, but the backs of his legs hit the edge of his bed, and he was still holding onto her as she gasped into his mouth. Her face moved away enough for her to meet his eyes, and they both slowly smiled, a shy laugh escaping him before she bit her lip and kissed him again. He moved his trembling hands to the sides of her face, and she leaned her full weight against him, the tiniest moan floating out from her as he tangled three, long fingers into her hair._

 _He couldn't stay like this much longer, with his neck bent to reach her and her whole body angled firmly along the front of him. As he bent his knees a bit, she broke away and pushed against his shoulders until he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled her into his lap. His heart was pounding in his ears, but she happily moved closer, brushing her cool fingers up his cheek and back down to his stubbly jaw._

 _She pressed soft lips to his cheek, and his eyes slipped shut, his fingers crawling up the back of her neck, under layers and layers of curls. Her lips slid toward his ear, then down the curve of his neck, sniffing back tears as she pressed kiss after kiss to his warm skin._

" _You okay?" he whispered, because an ugly thought had occurred to him, and he didn't want her doing anything just for him._

" _Mmm." She lifted her head and nodded, and he believed her. Her eyes were warm and beautiful and staring right back into his own. "Could I…"_

 _She paused, and her eyes flicked away from his, cheeks colouring a more vibrant shade of rose._

" _Is it alright if I stay up here tonight?"_

 _Her question answered every last one of his, and one corner of his mouth turned up into a lopsided grin. She found his eyes again, and her shyness faded somewhat, eyelids fluttering almost shut as he gently tugged a long curl of her hair._

" _Hoped you would," he admitted, and she grinned right back._

 _She moved quickly after that, or so it had seemed, because all of a sudden her legs were around his waist, and his hands were spreading across her back as her lips parted, meshing with his, tongues meeting and a wave of indescribable pleasure flowing out from his heart to his limbs._

 _He shifted around and held her against his chest, their lips breaking apart several times, laughter floating between them, until he was lying on his back, and she was lying half on top of him. Her hands moved up into his hair, and he felt gooseflesh spread from the back of his neck, across his shoulders and down his arms… one of which was now halfway inside the back of her shirt. He hadn't even meant to take things this far, but her skin felt so incredibly soft and warm and amazing, and she wasn't asking him to stop. He had a flash of a realisation that she wasn't wearing a bra, his hand spreading over nothing but skin between her shoulder blades. But, though it reminded him of how much he wanted her, that he had been dreaming of her naked body in his bed for months and months now, it also reminded him how close they were, not only in a physical sense, but in every other way._

 _His shirt, her shirt… that was all that separated their upper bodies from one another, and her chest was currently flattened quite completely to his. In his dreams, this might have mostly been lust, that sort of drunken haze of feeling that took over all rational thought. But, in reality, it was so much more than that. He'd known this, of course, in that abstract way of finally admitting to himself that he was in love with her, and not just blindly infatuated, not even just highly respecting who she was as a person - though he was absolutely doing those things, too. But no, it was much bigger than that, much more all-encompassing._

 _She pulled her lips away to take in a few short breaths, clear moonlight casting her face in contrast between blue-tinged highlights and dark shadows._

 _He slowly smiled up at her, twisting a long curl around his finger again._

" _Never seen your hair this long," he said in a scratchy voice._

 _She licked her swollen bottom lip, and he was almost too distracted for a moment to breathe._

" _You've seen me every day for almost a ye-" She interrupted her own words and cleared her throat. "For months, now."_

 _His heart clenched at her mistake, as if she'd almost forgotten those weeks and weeks he'd spent apart from them, before Christmas. He had to talk through it, or he'd end up spiraling into an apology, knowing it didn't matter how many times she told him it was past now, done. It was the feeling of guilt that drove him, with or without her forgiveness._

" _Yeah, but… I've known you a long time, and you usually keep it a good bit shorter."_

" _Haven't thought much about it recently…"_

" _I know," he said, willing the sadness out of his voice, though it seemed to be there to stay. "I like it like this."_

 _She smiled sceptically at him, but she reached up at the same time to run her fingers through_ his _hair._

" _Is it strange," she started to say, staring at his head as her nails raked so gently across his scalp, combing through tangles of ginger, "that we've known each other as friends for so long and now…"_

 _Fear briefly gripped him, but the way she was looking at him… He'd never have let her catch him looking at_ her _like that, back when they were only friends…_

" _Dunno. It's good though, innit?"_

 _Her eyes flashed to his so quickly he almost flinched._

" _Of course it's good! Much better than that, really…"_

 _He smiled but studied her face, her creased forehead, knitted brows._

 _"What?" he whispered._

" _I realised something, after we got the fangs from the Chamber of Secrets…" She shifted a bit to prop up on her elbow, her right leg and half of her upper body still overlapping his. "I really do think you're amazing, and I don't tell you enough."_

 _He didn't have the most secure grasp on reigning in his emotions, just then, after all they'd been through… and part of him wished she wasn't staring at him so intensely as his eyes watered. This shouldn't be such monumental news - she and Harry were his best friends, and he had to know they thought he was worth enough to stick around for so many years. On top of which he knew that he was different now, had faced the fears and made some kind of peace with them. And this wasn't completely something she hadn't said before. Just a few hours prior, in fact. But, hearing her say it now, having her here with him in his bed, her hand in his hair, her soft eyes on his face…_

 _This would have been an excellent time to tell her that he loved her, but the words were caught in his throat._

 _He sniffed and tried to laugh, but it came out as a breathy sort of half-cry._

" _Sorry," he whispered, but she shook her head, still staring._

" _Do you have any idea how long I've wanted this," she whispered back, "to be with you?"_

 _He smiled and risked blinking, relieved when no tears fell._

" _If it's anything like what it's been for me…" He trailed off and cleared his throat. "Best thing that's ever happened to me, when you kissed me."_

 _Her eyes sparkled when she smiled back, and, maybe because it was the longest they'd ever looked at each other this close up before, maybe just because she wanted to be even closer, she lowered her head to his shoulder, turned so her nose pressed against the side of his neck._

" _If I'd known that," she said, "I might've done it a lot sooner."_

" _Me, too."_

 _He gathered her somehow closer still, wrapping both arms around her, and she sighed as she laid her arm across his ribs, bending her elbow up to rest her palm loosely on the opposite side of his neck._

" _But we have all the time in the world now," she said in a sleepy, peaceful voice. "It's really over."_

" _Yeah," he said, holding on tight. "We've got the rest of our lives."_


	3. 6 Years, 7 Months, 8 Days

_**A/N:**_ _Woah. I actually added a bunch to this chapter while editing today, so this is quite a long one. It's got a lot of flashbacks but also_ _ **a good bit of violence and language**_ _, so be forewarned. Thanks to everyone who has given this story a try and to those of you who have reviewed and are enjoying it! I'm really glad this hasn't been a total downer, at least not enough to deter you from trying it out. Onward!_

* * *

 **CHAPTER THREE:  
** **6 years, 7 months, 8 days  
** **Monday, 20 December 2004**

He'd begun to notice a pattern. They brought Evelyn by once a week. He hadn't realised it until the third time, when he'd started paying more attention to the days. And all through the week, silence, leading him to believe she wasn't even there, all the time. Between her visits, he heard nothing, except for the heavy footfalls of his captors when they'd come by every other day or so to shove a tray of stale food into his room.

Lost in hours of endless thought, he'd draw the hazy lines between assumptions, and he wondered… was Evelyn at Hogwarts, somehow getting permission to leave school grounds each weekend? Could one of his captors be her guardian? They'd never really hurt her in his presence, though he couldn't exactly call the way they'd treated her kind or patient.

He closed his eyes, thinking of the mundane questions they'd been asking her, trying to prove his answers true, though he hadn't given them anything, yet. He needed something more, perhaps a mistake… impatience to grow to frustration. He walked a thin cord between what he could physically take and what might be too much. His body was aching, stomach a hollow pit, hardly noticing hunger or thirst. They might not _want_ to kill him, but they'd put him in a six year fucking coma the last time they'd been frantic...

He tried to take a deep breath, but there was a painful stitch in his side from the last time he'd been beaten. At least he was always left alone to recover, whether or not it was ever their intention. And, eventually, he drifted in and out of disturbed sleep, dipping into nightmares, banging his fists raw on the rough stone of a dungeon while Hermione screamed in pain and fear above him. He'd tried to get to her then, when he'd been desperate. He'd tried wandless, non-verbal magic, and he had failed. What made him think he could do it now?

But then he'd float in semi-consciousness, moving hazily toward some peaceful memory. Today, he could see her holding his hand as they'd walked away from the Burrow, the morning after his brother's death. He recalled, as if his dream self was remembering, the way he'd woken an hour previous to find her still in his arms from the night before, light streaming through his window. Her warm body had been encased in his limbs and his blanket, the scent of her hair and her skin mingling with his in the sheets.

He hadn't been sure she was awake until she'd shifted to look up at him, finding his eyes and smiling shyly.

He'd wanted every day to start just like this, he had decided. Every day...

" _Hey," he whispered, unsure if she'd maybe had the thought the previous night to use a silencing charm on his room, as the sounds of his family walking about the house came muted toward them through the walls and floor._

 _She mouthed a small hi back before licking her lips and shifting around again, rubbing her leg against his in the process. His mother's voice floated up the stairs toward Ginny, who was evidently awake and out of her room. She called back down, something unintelligible, and Ron listened carefully to see if he could hear his name._

" _Should I go?" Hermione whispered, propping herself up on her elbow and looking nervous._

" _Don't want you to," he mumbled, clearing his throat lightly._

" _But if everyone's awake, they're going to figure out I wasn't in Ginny's last night… if they haven't already."_

 _She sat the rest of the way up, and he couldn't help the way his heart flipped pleasurably at the sight of her tousled hair and wrinkled shirt. He smiled fondly, still feeling the pull of warm sleep as she caught his eyes and pressed her lips together, cheeks colouring a beautiful shade of rose._

" _Ron. Your mum will kill us if she finds out I slept in your room."_

" _Sorry," he whispered back, still smiling. "I just really don't care right now."_

 _Her lips twitched unwillingly into a small grin before she shook her head._

" _Do you think Harry stayed in Ginny's?"_

" _Maybe. And I'm sure they'd have covered for us."_

 _He watched her studying him almost sceptically for a moment before he shrugged._

" _I'd be happy for them, you know," he said, pushing up to his elbows, finally awake enough to agree that they should probably work on an escape plan, especially given that he was hopeful she'd stay again._

" _Yeah?" she asked, attempting and failing to tuck a tangle of thick curls behind her ear._

" _Yeah."_

 _He sat the rest of the way up, slightly startled when their faces ended up so close together, but he didn't move back, and neither did she._

 _Their first kiss had been blinding, hearts pounding, in the middle of war. Their second had been in the dark, late at night, and had ended in his bed… where they still were, now in the brilliant light of morning. He could see her face so much more clearly today, every feature and beautiful colour. This was different… This was somehow so much more real and solid, like there was really nothing to hide behind, no desperation, no moonlit darkness._

 _And though it made it so much more difficult to imagine going through with it, he also felt that he simply had to, like this was the moment he would no longer be able to wonder if he'd dreamt it all up…_

 _He lifted his lightly trembling hand to her neck, tilted his head and pressed his parted lips to hers. For a short moment, she didn't move… but then he felt her comprehend what was happening, and she leaned into him with a soft moan, one of her hands flattening to his chest and smoothing up to grip his shirt collar. Her reaction was so perfectly relieving that he grinned against her mouth, his thumb absently brushing her cheek as he brought his other hand up to mirror his first._

 _It was so gentle and yet so full of longing that he couldn't imagine ever stopping-_

 _Someone knocked softly on his door, and they broke apart, Hermione's eyes going wide. He put a finger to his lips, holding her gaze for a moment before he reached around for his wand, finding it on his bedside table where he must have put it in the night. With a quick swish and a whispered "Muffliato," he scooted to the edge of his bed and stood, turning back and reaching for her hand to pull her up in front of him._

" _Apparate to the shed," he suggested, and she nodded, collecting her own wand from his table, quickly turning on the spot and vanishing with a crack._

* * *

Ginny was stretched out along Harry's sofa, in her Quidditch uniform, feet propped up on the arm, while Hermione sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, scribbling out a revision to her latest report.

"You know," Ginny said around a yawn, "as much as I love the Harpies, I'm a bit relieved I've got the whole week off."

"I'm sure Harry will be, too," Hermione said, looking up from her work to smile at Ginny who returned it with a smirk.

"How's Duncan?"

Hermione's smiled faded.

"What?"

Ginny raised an eyebrow in question, and Hermione sighed.

"I sort of… hadn't got around to telling you," Hermione admitted. "I split up with him."

"Oh. When?" Ginny asked gently as she sat up on the sofa to fully face Hermione, her expression softening a bit, apologetically.

"It's been a while…"

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Hermione shrugged. "I don't think he was that broken up about it. He probably didn't expect me to stick around."

Silence fell around them for a few minutes before Ginny thankfully opted to change the subject.

"Will you be coming to the Burrow for Christmas?"

"I'm not sure yet… have to see what my parents want me to do and how much work I've got."

She immediately expected Ginny's predictable indignation over her attempts to work on a holiday, but it didn't come. The truth was that she felt too fragile just now to risk being in the Weasleys' house. Trying to move on had set her back, in some ways. And, to be in that house, to feel the ghost of his presence in every room… She'd gone there the year before last, narrowly resisted climbing the stairs to his bedroom… and had spent two days locked in her flat afterward.

"Well," Ginny said, as she stretched and stood from the sofa, "I'd better shower and change before Harry gets back with dinner. Stay and join us."

"That's alright," Hermione said, shutting the open books scattered around her and starting to pack parchment and quills into her bag. "I've got an early morning tomorrow. I should get home."

* * *

Rain was tapping on Hermione's bedroom window, and she was wide awake, watching the reflection of moonlight in the rivulets flowing down the glass. She seemed to go in phases, exhausted and sleeping too much for several weeks, then insomnia would take over. Recently, she'd buried herself even more than usual in her work, and maybe she just had too many lists and facts and memorised lines of text flowing through her mind to turn it off.

There were times when she felt lost in an endless sea, only barely drifting above the waves, and she'd so easily fall backward. She recalled her overworked third year at Hogwarts, one embarrassing night when she'd actually cried for no reason, fortunately alone in her dormitory, surrounded by stacks and rolls of notes from six of her subjects at once. Maybe the Time Turner had frayed her more than she was ever willing to admit, even now.

She considered the little things that had made an impact, the ones that had burned permanent places in her memory, like a quiet night after Prefect rounds when she'd been revising in the Common Room after everyone else had gone to bed except… except for Ron, who'd been sitting on the floor with his shirt untucked, sleeves rolled to the elbows. She'd dipped her quill in too much ink, sighing heavily as she'd dripped a large, black smudge over the end of her last sentence, and he'd silently reached up to hand her a chocolate frog. The only time she ever really ate sweets was when she was feeling overwhelmed. She'd never told him this, but she'd taken the frog and let her fingers brush his knuckles more than was necessary.

She had Harry. She had her family. She had Ginny and the rest of their friends. She knew they cared for her, even loved her. But…

He had been more. God, he still was, really. She still smiled when she thought of how they had been, the way his ears would go red sometimes, the way he would rub the back of his neck when he was nervous. He would tease her, roll his eyes, tell her to stop working so hard. But he knew her. And he'd sit up an extra hour, half-reading a Quidditch magazine, just to give her chocolate without saying a word.

He was gone but not completely. She clung fiercely to it, constantly battling her own obsession with the past. But, sometimes, it gave her a kind of peace, looking back. As much pain as she felt to have lost him physically, she had a sort of confidence in what they'd said, how they'd been those last few days. It had been so much more than fancying a best friend. And she struggled with deeply knowing he never would have left her, had he been able to make that choice.

He _wouldn't…_ right?

Whenever she felt that shadow creep up, clouding her memories with doubt, she wondered if it was some subconscious attempt at cutting the last remaining threads, the ones she held in a tight fist. _Maybe it would not have lasted, after all._ But she knew that all she had to do, to crush those doubts, was to remember.

 _She was standing at the back of the Burrow's garden shed, in her pyjamas, with a covert view out the dusty window toward the front of the house, silently praying that Ron wasn't currently being harshly lectured on decency and improper sleeping arrangements… He hadn't been able to impart her with the details of his plan, assuming he had one at all, beyond simply getting her out of his room for long enough to get rid of whoever had come knocking._

 _But then, like a calming beacon, his sun-glinting copper head emerged as he stepped down from the front door, pausing to yawn and stretch. She had to wonder if he was putting on some kind of act for anyone who could see him as he came to find her, and it made her stomach flip and her lips curl up into the wavering hint of a grin. He continued on, widely circling the garden until, at last, he approached the shed and nonchalantly wrenched open the door, blue eyes sparkling as they met hers._

" _Hey, sorry," he said, shutting the door behind him and walking across the shed toward her. "It was Mum, but don't worry, it's fine. Ginny told her you were sleeping in, and Harry did the same for me."_

" _She thinks I'm still in Ginny's room?"_

" _Well, no. Not now." He scratched the back of his neck before forcing his hand into his tightly filled pocket and pulling out her beaded bag. "After she came by to check on me, she knocked on Ginny's door, and we had to change the story. Harry must have read my bloody mind because he said he'd seen you walking around outside."_

 _He handed her the bag, and she blinked at him._

" _Thought it'd be more believable if you changed out of your pyjamas, so I nicked this from Ginny's for you after Mum left."_

" _Oh. That was good thinking."_

" _Honestly?" He sighed as she reached into her bag and fished out a clean shirt and jeans. "I'm not really up for all the sneaking around. I'm thinking of just telling everybody to bugger off."_

 _Her eyes flashed up to his, and she almost glared in disbelief._

" _Your mum will hate me."_

" _She would never. Especially not if I tell her… well."_

 _He paused and ran a hand across his jaw, and she watched a deep blush creep up his neck._

" _What?" she asked at a near whisper._

 _His eyes held her gaze for a silent second, and she saw something change in an indescribable way._

" _I'm in love with you."_

 _Her grip loosened automatically, and she dropped her bag and clean clothes to the floor._

" _Sorry," he said roughly. "Shit. I wanted to say it last night, but-"_

 _She gasped a half-laugh, half-cry, cutting him off as she flung her arms around his neck and squeezed her watery eyes shut. He ducked his head closer to hers, sucking in a surprised breath as he wrapped his own arms around her waist, burying his face in her hair._

" _I love you, too," she whispered into his ear, and she felt him laugh more than she heard him._

 _She pressed her nose to his neck and closed her eyes, consumed by the feeling of his hands moving up and down her back and his warm breath against her temple. She was going to burn it into her mind, the way he'd said those words to her, she knew it. She could not help replaying it, even just then, as if his words still echoed off the walls._

 _At last, she loosened her grip around his neck, but only to run her hands through his hair and pull her face back to find his eyes. They were shining, and he was smiling, and she honestly couldn't believe they were finally here._

" _When did you know?" She heard her own small, shaky voice between them, and she knew she was asking a selfish question, but she hoped, from the look that flashed through his eyes, that she was right to assume it was actually quite some time ago._

" _You don't want me to answer that," he said, a bit darkly._

" _Why not? I_ did _ask…"_

 _He gently shook his head and sighed, spreading a hand across her mid-back._

" _Too long ago."_

 _Her heart was fluttering, and she wasn't going to make him answer her, but she wished that he would. Apparently, her expression was enough to silently ask again, however, and he tugged the corner of his mouth up._

" _Sorry," he said in a low voice, and she shook her head automatically, captivated. "It's been so long I honestly don't know exactly when I figured it out, but… I definitely could have told you last year, in the hospital wing, but I had a bloody girlfriend."_

" _You said my name, in your sleep."_

" _Yeah," he grinned, flushing only slightly. "I know."_

" _I thought you didn't remember," she grinned back, and he shrugged, hands sliding down to her waist. "I don't know how long it's been for me, either," she added, "but… years."_

" _Really?" His eyes widened a bit, and she nodded, moving her hands down from his hair to his shoulders. "Bloody idiots."_

" _Hey!" she laughed. "Speak for yourself." He chuckled back, shaking his head._

" _I should have kissed you the first time I seriously thought about it… We were on rounds, in fifth year - do you remember this? - and you were all worked up about Umbridge, so I told you to calm down, and you hit me."_

 _She stared up at him, waiting for the rest of the story, only to realise he had finished._

" _That's it?"_

" _Yeah," he laughed. "I thought… I'd really like to just drag her into one of these empty classrooms and snog her. And then I couldn't concentrate on anything else you said, because my heart was beating in my ears til we got back to the tower."_

" _I thought about it on rounds, too," she admitted, "particularly when we'd catch other students snogging in a broom closet or that one time in the Astronomy Tower."_

 _His eyes darted between hers, and he licked his bottom lip._

" _One time Harry was really late coming back from a meeting with Dumbledore," he said, "and you wanted to wait up for him, and I almost convinced myself you just wanted to stay down in the Common Room with me for longer. Figured I was wrong later, though."_

" _You weren't."_

" _Yeah, bloody idiot, remember?"_

 _He slid his hands up her sides, and she knew he hadn't even meant to, but his palms brushed the outer edges of her breasts, and she lightly gasped as he quickly let go of her. She watched him swallow as she dropped her hands from his shoulders, and she thought he might be on the point of apologising when she spotted Percy, walking across the garden, through the dirty window behind him._

" _Percy's outside," she said quietly._

 _Ron turned to glance over his shoulder._

" _Guard the door so I can change," she added, and he nodded before crossing the room and reaching for the handle._

" _Stay inside!" she added quickly._

" _Huh?" He glanced back over at her, a look of nervous confusion flashing across his face._

" _How suspicious will it look if you're just standing outside in front of the door?"_

" _Oh."_

 _He rubbed the back of his neck, and her heart was pounding a bit, in the most amazing way._

" _Why are you in the shed, anyway?" he added, mouth tilting into a small, sideways grin. "We didn't think through this whole story…"_

" _It doesn't matter. Just turn around so I can change," she laughed, and he nodded, still smiling, but a suspicious flush was creeping up his neck toward his cheeks._

 _He stood there with his back toward her, incredibly still and silent, as she reached for the clothes she had dropped, backing away from the window's view. It was funny, really, how just standing there in the same room as him, stripping down to her knickers, was raising her temperature and making her think of things she really ought not to think about right now. An exhilarated part of her actually wanted him to turn around and move… move much, much closer. She could imagine his hands on her skin, his mouth on her neck-_

 _She was breathing way too erratically in the silence, and she realised he could hear her… could hear everything. The soft sounds of cotton dropping to the floor, the rustle of her jeans as she pulled them on._

 _Swallowing, she attempted to compose herself as she stuffed her pyjamas into her bag and approached him._

" _Okay, let's go back," she whispered in a shaky voice._

 _He nodded and reached for the door handle without turning around. Tugging it open, they found that Percy had crossed to the far, opposite side of the garden and was filling a basket with something, presumably on an errand assigned by his mother. As they exited the shed, Ginny emerged from the house in her swimming costume and shorts, and Hermione really didn't feel much like going back inside the house. Did it really matter, now? He loved her. He loved her. She didn't want to talk to anyone else._

" _Actually," she said, reaching for Ron's hand, "could we go for a walk?"_

" _Yeah, sure," he said, glancing down at their joined hands before meeting her eyes. And they walked across the fields, summer sun warming their skin, the beautiful hint of an impending thunderstorm swirling in the distant, dark gray clouds._

* * *

He was on his knees, a rough hand gripping his hair too tight, face to face with Evelyn. Her dark eyes were narrowed almost to slits as she tried to resist. They'd brought her by every day this week, ruining his logic from before… unless…

He swallowed, working on avoiding a single flinch of his facial features.

Unless it was Christmas.

"Give her a real one, this time," said Mathilda, the tall, sandy-haired witch who was standing behind Ron, her sharp voice reverberating slightly off the steel walls.

Graham's chapped lips curved just slightly upward before he spoke.

"Where'd your father hide our gold?"

Ron's eyes darted for a split second. Now _this_ was going somewhere.

So, he finally had their motive.

He watched as Evelyn's hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, and his eyes locked on hers again, searching. If he could find the answer to their question, he'd be at a crossroads. They might deserve to know, or they might be taking advantage of holding two people fucking hostage for years… He stamped down his spark of rage and focused, _thinking_ of his own question, hoping she'd hear him again.

 _Why did your father hide the gold?_

Her face twitched, and he tried hard not to blink. Mathilda's hand tightened painfully in his hair. They were growing impatient.

 _Why did your father-_

But _there_ was that hollow whisper, like before, and he froze.

 _Wanted it… wanted it all._

Bits and pieces were making sense, and he had to think quick. Somehow, her father had been involved in something that had ended with his possession of what should have belonged to these people, to his captors. Had they been part of a heist, together? Or had he simply stolen from them? His next question materialised, carefully.

 _Where did your father get the gold?_

Evelyn's eyes flashed between his, and she made the tiniest sound, like a strangled whimper.

 _Department of M-Mysteries._

The little voice was slurred and stuttering this time, as she tried so very hard to resist. But he was close now. So, so close.

 _Why did he keep it all for himself?_

She closed her eyes, and Graham grabbed the back of her robes.

"Oi!" he shouted, and she winced, eyes popping open again. But Ron focused all he had on trying not to blink, searching for the answer. It came so softly, he almost missed it.

 _Not for him. I made him do it._

Her words rolled around in his head as he tried to make sense of them. When had this crime been committed? He'd been here six and a half years, he guessed, which… which made her merely six or seven years old, if the crime had even been fresh when they'd taken him. How had a young child convinced her father to take what didn't belong to him, to double cross his companions just for her?

A thin man, Ian, who had been standing in shadow by the back wall, slowly approached them.

"I told you he was rubbish. This won't work."

"He's going to do it," Mathilda insisted, "or we'll kill him, won't we, Graham?"

"Little bitch," Graham spat, ignoring Mathilda's question. "It's her fault Alcott's dead. We could have tortured the bastard and learned all we needed, years ago."

"She knew he was weak," Ian said, in a monotone voice that made Ron's jaw tighten with fear.

"Answer the goddamn question!" Graham roared. "Where the fuck did your bastard of a father hide our gold?!"

But Evelyn's eyes remained fixed on Ron's, and he felt, for the first time, that she was really, truly fighting back. She was searching his mind, trying to find a way in. Could she _do_ that? He'd been operating under the clueless assumption that he could read _hers_ only because of the placement of her scars, over the back of her head. His own scars, shimmering in swirls around his arms, might not grant her the same power.

But what if it didn't work that way? Sod it, how did anyone know how the hell this really worked?

"Tell us what she's thinking!" Mathilda demanded, fist clenching somehow tighter in his hair.

But he wasn't ready. He couldn't. He knew too little to risk it and would be worthless to them once they had all they needed from him. Not yet.

"I can't. It's not working."

He expected violence, but the blow to the side of his head was sharper than he'd anticipated, and he stumbled sideways, a chunk of his hair ripped out from Mathilda's hand still clinging on tight. She opened her fist and wiped her hand on her robes as he felt thick blood trickle down the side of his face. This one was worse than before. And in Mathilda's other hand he saw the object that had struck him - a bare razor blade, with one side wedged into a piece of rough wood.

His vision blurred slightly, and he fell the rest of the way to the floor as Mathilda scoffed with disgust. Ian stepped forward to take ahold of Evelyn, ushering her toward the door.

"Bern says to leave him a plaster when he bleeds that much," Graham said roughly to Mathilda.

"Thinks I've got endless medical supplies, does he?"

"You kept him alive all those years while he wasn't conscious-"

"Yeah," she scoffed, "and stealing Muggle IVs isn't the same as potions and plasters from a locked and inventoried fucking room at St Mungo's."

"Just give him the plaster, Mathilda," Graham said sharply. "If he dies on our watch, Bern'll kill us."

"I can't be seen in Diagon Alley to buy more," she seethed, before she complied, reaching into her cloak pocket and produced a short piece of clean cotton, dropping it hastily to the floor by Ron's head and exiting through the door just as it opened. "Come on," she shouted back, and Graham followed immediately, slamming the door shut behind him.

* * *

"One week's mandatory suspension."

Hermione walked through the door to Harry's flat as he held it open for her, catching Ginny's shocked gaze as she made her way to the sofa and collapsed onto it.

"What?! What did you do?"

But Hermione closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back cushion, knowing Harry would explain. Her head was pounding, and all she wanted was a drink and bed.

"She broke into the Auror archives and stole Ron's case file," Harry said, and she could hear thinly veiled amusement in his voice. He was probably grinning, if Ginny's scoff was any indication.

"Why?!"

"They've re-opened the case on Archie Wofford."

Just hearing his name from Harry's mouth had reignited the fire, and she opened her eyes again, so quickly forgetting exhaustion. The man who had killed Ron, six and a half years ago. The man she'd probably have murdered herself had they let go of her, had the Aurors not held her back when Harry had rushed forward, slamming his fist into Archie's face. God, that memory almost made her smile. But she wasn't quite ready for that yet.

"Bloody hell," Ginny said, voice scratchy and filled with those recognisable emotions, the ones Hermione felt running thickly through her blood.

"Apparently he was caught saying something to another prisoner about gold," Harry added.

"Gold?" Ginny questioned, sitting down on the armchair as Harry moved closer.

"Now they think he may have been involved with other crimes."

"No surprise," Ginny sighed. "But isn't he in Azkaban for life?"

"I don't know," Harry winced. "They're bringing him in."

"To the Ministry?" Ginny's eyes widened as she glanced from Harry to Hermione.

"Yes," Hermione said shakily, "and I've got to be there."

"How?"

"Haven't figured that part out yet, but I will, won't I."

"I'm actually glad you stole that file," Harry admitted, and Ginny raised a sharp eyebrow at him. "And, if I had to bet, you made a copy before they caught you, and it's in your bag right now, disguised as something else."

This was true, and she knew she didn't have to answer him.

"I never thought they'd lock me out like that," she sighed. "I should at least be allowed access through you, Harry. I was there. My name's all over it."

"You're right," Harry said, collapsing onto the sofa next to her.

"So…" Ginny began softly, when the other two fell silent, "what happens now? How do we get Hermione in for the trial?"

Hermione's eyes flashed over to Ginny's, holding her gaze as she slowly smiled.

* * *

It had been hours and hours since they'd last come by to change the rusted bucket they left with him as a toilet… and to give him half a glass of murky water to drink. But he'd chugged it down, his temple and the side of his face stinging from where he'd been sliced open. The plaster they'd left him just barely wrapped around his head, just enough to secure with a tiny knot, after four failed attempts, and blood was caked in his beard, which had grown quite unruly by now. He hardly recalled what it felt like to have a shaved face, smooth skin.

Now, all he wanted to do was sleep. More than that, he wanted to disappear in memories. He imagined that he wasn't really here, not completely, because so much of him was locked away in the past. He knew, and he kept on doing it. It was the only way to go on. And it was working, most of the time.

It worked better when he wasn't hurting, when he wasn't brought back so fiercely to his reality by searing pain.

He could try, anyway. Those days… those days he held in his mind like sparks of energy, memories twisting until he had to rustle them back together into what they had really been. Sometimes he'd dream too deeply, fastening a fantasy to a memory, weaving them into each other.

He looked back on that second day, the way she'd taken his hand as they'd left the shed, turning away from the house to be alone, together. They'd gone for a walk, he'd already told her he loved her. He recalled the feelings that had fallen over him after that. He'd wanted to spare her from his mother's lecture, had she found them together in his room, but he was too consumed with having what he'd wanted, with being so fucking lucky, that he really didn't want anything in the world to hold them back. He'd started having ridiculous thoughts about moving somewhere else together, even sleeping outside in the ruddy tent if they had to. His life had been making sense in a way that it never had done before. All he'd wanted was to spend every second he had left of his life with her. Bloody hell, he hadn't known he'd have so few. That she'd think-

But he always came back here, didn't he. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, to silence the alarm as it blared louder and louder at the back of his mind.

If he found her, what then? If he managed to escape this place, everything would be the same with Harry, wouldn't it. His best friend. God, he missed Harry. He missed their days together, even the ones that had looked cloudy and dark before. He missed Harry's sodding _voice…_ But Hermione.

Nothing would be the same, would it.

He missed every single fucking thing about her. He missed the way she smelled, the way her skin felt against his fingers. He missed her little smiles, the ones she only gave to him, the ones he saw in his bed, in the dark. He missed the way she held onto him, the way she touched him and kissed him, like she was desperate for him. He missed that feeling of awe, disbelief that she felt this way for _him_. And he wasn't going to get that back.

She'd actually _loved_ him. _Had_ done. Once. Had done, before he'd lost so many years, left her alone to find someone else, to forget him.

If he ever saw her again, he _knew_. He knew he couldn't get her back the way they'd been. It was over.

He closed his eyes, trying to force depression, useless negative repetition, from his mind. But it felt like an impossible climb.

But _maybe_.

Maybe was all he needed.

Maybe he could see her smile, her beautiful face as he walked toward her. Maybe he could hold her hand, just for a moment. Maybe she'd let him kiss her cheek - it had been so long, and she would still care for him, no matter what had happened in between. Maybe she'd let him hold onto her for a bit longer than a friend should.

Maybe that would be enough.

 _Wingardium Leviosa._

He stared up at the steel ceiling overhead, recognising that his hands were shaking. They almost didn't feel like his own, anymore. He was cold, but it hardly penetrated his skin. He blinked, hairs standing up along his forearms for some reason-

And then, he saw it.

The pebble from the floor was hovering in midair, directly over his face. It took him several seconds to comprehend what was happening, and then, his lips curled up into a smile. He stared at what he had done - the small rock was a beacon, a blinding light of hope.

His smile broke into a laugh, and his eyes watered as he thought again of home.


	4. 6 Years, 9 Months, 17 Days

_**A/N:** So, I'm posting this chapter quite early because I'm going out of town for four days as of Friday morning, and I didn't want to miss a week. The next chapter should be back on regular schedule, so a week from Saturday. I actually split this chapter into two parts, after editing it, because it got out of control long._

 _Thank you all for continuing with the angst with me! Hope you enjoy this update x_

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOUR:  
** **6 years, 9 months, 17 days  
** **Tuesday, 1 March 2005**

She was standing in the shower, water pounding hard against her shoulders. It was four o'clock in the morning, but she couldn't sleep.

For the past four years, since beginning her job at the Ministry, there were three days she always took off work, and no one asked questions anymore. The second of May, like so many others, in remembrance of the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the war. The twelfth of May, the day she'd gone with Ron to catch a Portkey to Australia, the day she'd lost him. And the first of March… his birthday.

This year was different. This year she was expected at the Wizengamot in three days, and she had too much work to do. This year she'd said "see you tomorrow" to her co-workers as she'd left her office the night before. This year… she needed it to stop.

She needed it.

Then why was she crying? She hadn't even realised it, lost in the rush of almost painfully hot water from her shower.

She reached for a bottle of shampoo and began working suds through her hair, which had gotten quite out of control, but she pushed away from any feelings of frustration, trying and failing to forget.

 _Never seen your hair this long…_

She squeezed her eyes shut and combed her fingers through thick curls, swiftly tugging as much as she could over her shoulder and moving down to the ends, which were so long now they brushed her stomach. Once done, she allowed the water to run down her back until it had gone quite cold, numbing her body a bit before she bothered to turn it off and reach for a towel.

For the next half hour, she methodically dressed, charmed her hair mostly dry and busied herself with unpacking and repacking her bag, which had filled quite rapidly with notes and books she didn't need with her anymore. She contemplated the time, wincing at the thought of arriving at work at just past five in the morning. It was still quite dark outside, and no one else would be at the Ministry at this hour, save the Aurors. But she didn't want to sit here, alone. And she knew there was no hope of sleeping again. So, she stood, resolved to spend an extra long day sequestered at her desk, hoping her work kept her busy til dinner.

She really hadn't meant to find it, she would swear, as she paused to go back to her wardrobe and rummage through boxes for a scarf. She really, truly hadn't… But, her fingers brushed cool metal at the back of the second box she opened, and it didn't take seeing what she had touched to know.

The one thing she had of his, still here with her. The thing she hadn't been able to part with. The thing she'd hidden from herself more than a year ago now.

Ron's Deluminator.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tugged her hand back as if burned. She distantly registered that her whole body was shaking, but she stood anyway, frantic to put as much distance between her discovery and herself as possible. She rushed from the room, headed for the front door. She'd take the long way, she decided. She'd walk through the early morning chill and let the cold slice through her thoughts.

She had to. She couldn't let herself drown.

But then, she paused. Hand on the door knob. Heart in her throat.

She was supposed to be stronger than this.

 _Don't drown._

...but maybe just a little. Face it now and then… then she'd go to work, lose herself in parchment and books. She let go of the door and turned to lean against the wall. At least she hadn't done the charms for her makeup today… not that she often wore much, just enough to cover the dark circles underneath her eyes, make her cheeks a bit less pale.

She took in a deep, trembling breath… let it out again.

He would have been twenty-five years old today.

* * *

He was pacing his small, dark cell, corner to corner, pushing away from a frustration that was building to rage. The last few times they'd brought Evelyn by had been… different. He knew more now than he'd ever thought he would.

Alcott Wright, Evelyn's father, had been employed at the Department of Mysteries for many years. Evelyn's mother had died in childbirth, so Alcott had often taken his daughter to work with him, often against regulations. He'd bring her inside, let her sit on the floor and play. One day, she'd crawled down the corridor to the room with the brains, that place Ron remembered in hazy streaks of memory.

Once the brains had got her, she'd gone mute, worked on building partitions in her mind, until she could be many different people. If someone tried to get in, she'd choose who to be. But, for some reason, Ron knew she was telling him the real truth. Against her will. Their connection was removing the boundaries she'd created, and he was hearing pure thoughts and memories. Deeply buried. Ones he wasn't even sure she knew she was giving to him.

He'd maybe never understand how it worked, but he knew everything his captors needed, now. Which was his awful predicament.

Sometime early in 1997, a small chest of gold coins had been brought in to the Department of Mysteries, and it was said the gold would duplicate, actually increasing in real, usable quantity over time. Alcott had been in with a band of petty thieves for quite a while, but as they'd got word of the gold, they'd planned to steal it and retire, a prospect that had them all feeling quite greedy… including a six year old Evelyn, who had been silently blaming her father for the death of her mother and her accident at the Ministry. Something had always been wrong inside her, like she'd turned off everything good, all compassion and mercy, and was living in the shell of a person, dark clouds filling her mind.

She'd manipulated her father, spoken to him for the first time since her accident and convinced him to double cross his companions, knowing that if he took the gold for himself, it would be hers. And all she'd really wanted was to have what others would be jealous of, to put her simple life behind her, to buy everything new, be the envy of the other kids who often picked on her for her secondhand toys and the old shoes she wore.

Ron wished he couldn't relate, but he'd found himself feeling sick as he'd uncovered this bit of truth. Her motivation was a painfully familiar one, and he'd felt some amount of pity toward her, until he'd found out the rest.

Alcott had done the double cross and hidden the gold, escaping far away with Evelyn. But, sometime in the night, he'd begun to feel guilty. Had second thoughts. But, by then, in Evelyn's mind, the gold was hers, and her father had no right to turn it over to anyone.

She'd never seen him as a real person anyway, never connected with another human being enough to feel anything at all.

She'd slit his throat with a razor blade, in his sleep.

Two days later, her aunt Mathilda had found her huddled in the corner of a hotel room, her father's blood coating the bed sheets. Mathilda had assumed, at first, that someone had killed him because of the double cross, or someone had learned the whereabouts of the gold and had murdered him to keep the secret.

This suspicion didn't last very long.

Alcott had once said that perhaps he should have let those brains in the Department of Mysteries have a go at him as well, so that he could communicate with his daughter, know what she was thinking. This had come back to Mathilda, as she'd begun to believe that Evelyn knew everything, exactly where the gold was hidden. And, as she had worked for a time at St Mungo's, Mathilda knew where they kept the files on unusual injuries. She'd spent months searching and had finally located it in Hogwarts student archives… a wizard, scarred by those same brains the night they'd all been destroyed, able to read Evelyn's mind. To do what no one else could do.

And he had done it. Ron now knew exactly where the gold was.

Which was the only reason he was here, the only conceivable thing they needed from him. The only secret that kept him alive.

They'd given a rough promise of freedom, should he tell them the truth. But he was too smart for that. Why fake his death and let him live? No. They would kill him, bury his body in a field somewhere, and that would be the end. No one would ever find out.

He had to string them along til he was ready. He'd worked on unlocking the door for several straight weeks, but either his wandless, nonverbal spells weren't working or he had yet to figure out the charms they were using. His next best chance was to attack them, steal a wand, run.

There were days when he hardly felt like moving, let alone training, but he couldn't be physically weak and expect to stand a chance. So, as soon as he would wake, with no concept of time, he would roll to the floor, working out his arms and chest as well as he could. He'd sprint from corner to corner, tagging the wall at each end, until he couldn't see straight. And he'd close his eyes, concentrate on all the charms and hexes he knew, strategically choosing the ones that could serve him best.

Finally, sensing he had run out the clock on playing dumb and taking a beating, he'd begun to sprinkle out the truth, cautious not to ever say too much, to merely give a glimpse to keep his captors desperately longing for more.

He played a fearful game, scuffing his feet at the edge of a cliff but always catching his balance. And he was never sure when might be the day they threw him over.

* * *

Thunder. Thunder always made her remember the same thing. Sometimes she'd think of it in fragments, flashes like lightning of his hands on her waist, his mouth against her ear… Tonight was different. Tonight there was a sort of fog, hovering over her, slowing her down.

Everyone had left their offices, but she'd opted to work late rather than meet up with Harry and Ginny. Being together, with them… on the night of his birthday… Not this year. She'd wanted to face it alone.

It was well past dark, and she'd be soaked through if she walked home, but she found herself pulling on her yellow raincoat, anyway. Yellow.

She could see the golden summer sun, glinting across the fields of the Burrow, replaced by that dark shadow of a storm.

Grabbing her bag, swishing her wand to waterproof it, she made her way to the door, passing by rows of dark, quiet desks until she reached the lifts, leaning back and closing her eyes as gears whirred and she was whisked away, echoes of distant thunder still rolling toward her. And maybe she couldn't really hear them, but she could feel them, floating between now and memory.

She emerged moments later on street level, evenly placed streetlamps sparking reflections off the soaked tarmac and concrete, and she moved onward, through the pouring rain, unruly curls sticking to her cheeks and neck. A car zoomed past as she approached the next corner, a busy road, and she turned right, walking purposefully, but not too fast.

She shivered lightly in the cold, passing closed cafes on her right, but traffic roared by on her left. Thunder cracked again overhead, followed too closely by a flash of blinding lightning. A few people were huddled, across the street, beneath an awning, and she glanced back as a taxi stopped next to them, and they rushed inside.

Tugging her hood more securely over her head, she continued on, breathing through her mouth, wondering when the rain on her face would obscure the possibility of tears. As if anyone could see her now.

Thunder always reminded her of him.

 _They'd been walking for a good while, in comfortable silence, breaking it only with little remarks about the past, speculation about Harry and Ginny, and laughter when he made a joke, a feeling of comfort consuming her, so much more than she'd felt in ages. At last, she led them to the edge of the woods, and she tugged his hand, pulling him through the tree line, hidden several paces back behind a wild cluster of bushes. No one could see them here._

 _She turned to face him, a beautiful mixture of sunlight in his hair and a storm cloud moving closer behind him. But she was always distracted by his eyes, darting slightly, asking a million little questions. She loved him more than she could explain, and her thoughts went quickly back to how far they'd come in such a short time… but how long it had taken them to start._

 _Still holding his hand, she gently pulled him down to sit on the ground, in front of her. His blue gaze held hers again, sparkling and bright, and her heart was beating so fast, watching his chest move as he breathed. She wanted everything with him._

 _He let go of her hand, only to move his fingers up over her wrist, feather light along her forearm. He closed his hand loosely around her elbow, and they moved together at the same moment. Their lips met just as his free hand wrapped around the back of her neck, holding her close, and she shivered, in spite of the warm weather. Sitting on their knees, she thought they were still much too far apart, and she didn't care what it took to get closer, only knowing that she had to do it, desperately clinging to the feeling of him, the warmth he radiated toward her as she slid her hands up over his shoulders and climbed feverishly into his lap. For a moment, their lips broke apart, and he panted against her mouth, eyes flashing down to her lips, further down her body… making her feel that deep ache of desire, how she was beginning to suspect he felt for her as well - what she could see, in every line of his face, every breath he took._

 _He crushed her mouth again without a word, gripping the back of her shirt now as she fully settled on top of him, her knees straddling his thighs. Closer… closer…_

 _Why had she asked him not to watch her, to turn away from her when she'd changed her clothes, in the shed? It seemed epically far away from the truth now. Maybe it was a bit of blind desire, given this moment and what they were doing, but it was also everything she'd known for so long. A part of her was nervous, of course, heart hammering and a growing fear that she was far less than perfect, but it was shallow insecurity. She wanted him to see her, to touch every part of her._

 _She arched her chest against his, feeling the sounds he made through the vibrations of his body - low, trembling moans; a shaking hand finding the hem of her shirt and working its way up the back, flattening to her bare skin._

 _Overwhelmed, she broke away from his lips again to hold his face in her hands as his own hands grasped her thighs through her jeans, and she moved just a bit on top of him, enough to press down on his lap and make him groan, fingers digging into her through too-thick denim. Seeing his reaction, his eyes meeting hers again, she did it again._

" _Fuck, Hermione-"_

 _Thunder cracked in the distance, and his eyes darted over her shoulder. But she was too invested now, no part of her caring about the storm, about being caught out here in it, with him. Her fists found the bottom of his shirt, and she gathered it enough to shove her hands up the front, palms to his bare chest before she just had to be closer again, moving her hands around his sides to his back, collapsing her chest to his, his shirt now bunched halfway up his body as he tilted his head and open-mouth kissed his way across her jaw, toward her ear._

 _His hand moved down her back until it froze at the waist of her jeans, and she could feel how much he wanted her. She tilted her head back, widening her thighs and pressing down hard against his crotch._

" _Ohmygoddd…" His slurred words felt hot on her skin, and he held her waist in both trembling hands, lightly biting her ear. And then… his hands moved to squeeze her arse, and she gasped, yanking his hair until he moved back to her lips, teeth digging into her before he adjusted and slid his tongue inside her mouth._

 _She weaved her fingers through his hair, thunder cracked closer this time, and she heard the rain falling just before it reached them. They paused, startled, lips still together._

" _Bloody hell," he laughed, against her mouth, as the downpour soaked them instantly through. She pulled back enough to watch his fringe dripping in his eyes, and she smiled._

" _I have an idea," she whispered, mouth still so close to his. It wasn't really the most direct or the most alluring way for her to phrase it, but he didn't seem to understand just yet anyway._

" _Hm?"_

" _No one can see us, and they won't come out here in the rain."_

" _Might… if Mum gets worried."_

 _She leaned back a bit, enough to see him properly. His hands were resting lightly on her lower back, but she could still feel him breathing a bit fast, and his parted lips were slightly puffy from the intensity of their kisses._

" _I th-think… you might want what I want." She pressed herself just a bit more firmly down on his lap again, feeling his erection hard between their restrictive jeans._

 _He swallowed visibly, and his eyes briefly threatened to roll shut._

" _What do you want?" he whispered back._

" _You know what I want."_

 _He found her eyes once more and held her gaze, lust pouring out between them. But she saw the moment he surfaced, very gently shaking his head._

" _Don't wanna just… shag you for the first time in the woods and hope nobody finds us." She inhaled shakily through her nose, a bit surprised and maybe turned on even more by his direct use of actual words. But she slid off his lap to sit in front of him, watching his eyes flash with disappointment, but his expression was so full of love, as well. "Wish we could get the hell out of here…"_

" _Then, let's go."_

" _Where?" he smiled, almost drunkenly reaching out to touch his fingers to her wet cheek, pushing back soaked curls._

" _Come with me, to find my parents."_

" _Yeah?" His smile curled into a lopsided grin._

" _Always hoped you would."_

" _Always hoped you'd ask."_

 _They laughed, rivulets of rain running off the end of his nose and down his stubbly cheeks._

" _We can stay in a hotel room. We'll be completely alone."_

" _You really don't have to sell this plan any harder, y'know," he laughed. "I'm going with you."_

 _Lightning flashed through the trees, illuminating his face stark white, his freckles standing out for a moment, even more than usual. She leaned forward, cupped her hand so gently to his cheek, and kissed the corner of his mouth, feeling him tense before he relaxed, slowly exhaling and closing eyes._

" _Can't believe I can do that now," she whispered as she pulled back again, removing her hand very slowly, until only her fingertips remained on his jaw. He opened his eyes and reached up to hold onto her wrist, thunder cracking ominously, lightning flashing immediately again._

" _Any time you want," he said in a low, scratchy voice, lightly clearing his throat afterward, "'cept maybe we should go inside before this storm kills us."_

 _Her smile spread slowly, and she felt like she was in some kind of half-drugged dream._

" _Yeah, okay," she laughed, and he took her hand to help her up. "I'll talk to Kingsley tomorrow. Maybe he can help with a Portkey."_

" _Brilliant."_

 _And she huddled close to him as he led her quickly back to the house, shoes squelching in the muddy grass as the rain continued to pour down._

* * *

He regretted telling her to wait, out there in the rain. Oh, how he regretted it, when he was filled with the worst of his anger.

He might have had one chance - well, more than one, really, but that had been his first - to be with her, and he'd thought he was being gentlemanly, as bloody difficult as it had been to stop once she was in his lap like that. He'd been dreaming of her naked body in his bed with him for years. On the Horcrux hunt, there were countless nights he couldn't sleep because of her, days he'd be walking in silence through the woods, imagining exactly what she'd offered him that day at the Burrow. Why the hell had he been so- so-

No. He didn't regret it. He couldn't have known what would happen next. And he'd wanted the best for her - which he had never really believed was _him_ , anyway, but she'd really loved him, and he would have just kept trying to be better. Not that she'd ever asked him to.

He'd taken to occasionally envisioning his small, steel room as another place entirely. One day, it was the Prefect's bath at Hogwarts, and he could feel her wet skin on his. Another day, it was that hotel they'd never seen, in Australia. If he closed his eyes and reached out, she was there with him.

When he was cold, it was her breath and her body that warmed him. When he was in pain, it was her lips gently caressing his skin and whispering beautiful words. When he wanted to die… it was her angry voice, her fists on his chest when he'd come back to them in the woods.

His door scraped open, and he didn't even look up. He remained sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall, watching a shadow pass through the flickering flame of his lantern. She had to leave him, now. He could only do this alone.

"See you soon," he whispered, just before a hand closed too tightly around his arm and tugged him roughly up to his knees.


	5. 6 Years, 9 Months, 20 Days

_**A/N:** Thanks so much to everyone who has continued with this story, left lovely reviews, and just been cool about the whole thing. I have really, really enjoyed working on this, and I'm so glad people are enjoying it with me!_

 _As next weekend is Thanksgiving in the US, I am going to say that while I will try my best to get chapter 6 up on Saturday, there is a chance things will just be too hectic for me to have proper time to edit. We have a lot of family coming into town and, to get real for a second, this is my first major holiday without a very special person in my life who passed away last spring. Anyway, not trying to bring down the mood (okay, I'm bringing down the mood with this whole story tbh, but you get what I mean), but just letting you know that I am anticipating a slightly difficult bit of RL for the next week._

 _Thank you for your patience and just being a great bunch of pals here in fandom. It's been wonderful for me to be back in some R/Hr fandom circles lately, particularly after mourning the loss of my crew over on LJ. Love you all, and happy early Thanksgiving for my US friends, have an awesome regular week for everyone else! xx_

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIVE:  
** **6 years, 9 months, 20 days  
** **Friday, 4 March 2005**

She was sitting outside the courtrooms, clasping her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. Harry had wrestled her a spot at this hearing with the compound excuses that she had a right to testify again if Ron's case was brought up and the fact that he was Harry bloody Potter. The whole thing had been much easier than expected, but that somehow made her even more nervous, like the leftover energy not spent working it out had been sitting firmly on her chest instead, since Christmas.

The doors in front of her thudded open loudly, and a short little wizard with thin, grey hair acknowledged her over the rims of his glasses.

"Miss Granger, please come in."

He stepped sideways and gestured for her to pass through the doors. Clutching her bag tightly, she stood and walked, too aware of the loud clicking her shoes made with each step on the marble floors.

She'd been avoiding thoughts of what it would be like to see him, face to face, after so many years. But now, as she approached the second set of doors on the left, the short wizard beside her motioning for her to go through, she was holding her breath. Once she walked through those doors, there would be no escape. She would see him there soon, the man who had killed Ron mere metres away from her, six and a half years ago.

All she could do now was trust that she had learned how to do this, straighten her posture and make herself numb. She'd been doing it for too long. So, she let that icy grip harden around her heart, and she opened the doors.

The large wood and stone room was cold and nearly empty, save two wizards and one witch in plum, Wizengamot robes, seated at the front on a raised platform, and a young wizard who was seated to the left of them and serving as Court Scribe. They watched her as she walked toward the rows of seats behind the open space where a single chair awaited… where she knew they would bring the prisoner to sit before them momentarily. She sat a bit to the left, where she thought she might be hidden from his gaze during the trial but where she'd still be able to see his profile, and she clasped her shaking hands on her lap once again to wait.

She wished, not for the first time, that Harry could be here, too. But he'd been called up north for an important raid with a team he had trained for weeks, and she had asked him not to call it off just for this. The truth was that there was little to no chance that this interrogation today would change a thing about the outcome of Ron's case. There had been nothing to suggest the gold Archie Wofford had mentioned had anything to do with Ron's death, merely an indication of further crimes committed, for which he could hopefully be tried and sentenced further. If anything, he might find himself facing an extension of his sentence or more security in his cell. It was a good thing, she reminded herself. She was only here to watch, to listen, to ease her anxious mind that there could be any chance of redemption.

The only thing that nagged her was the casualness with which the hearing was being carried out… and the suspicion that they didn't have much to go on here. If this were the case, it was possible they were here today specifically to press the prisoner for information. How important was it that they solved a stale case of theft from years ago?

She'd never believed so strongly in what she felt today, that some people did not deserve a second chance. She'd have questioned her single-mindedness, before… but then she'd always been strongly convicted, when she could trust her intellect. It was the emotional part in which she'd maybe never been fully secure.

But before she could gather her jumbled thoughts, the door to her left opened slowly, and she could hear heavy chains clanging around his arms and legs before she could see him. But then, just like that, he materialised, dark greasy hair falling past his shoulders, a straggly grey and black beard covering half his face, trailing unevenly down to his chest. He was gripped on either side by two guards in drab, dark grey robes, but he didn't seem to be resisting much of anything. They led him to his chair, sat him down, magically bound him, and left the way they'd entered.

The only sound in the room, for a moment, was the reverberating of the door thudding shut.

Her heart was in her throat. Her face was hot. And her fists were clenched tightly on either side of her legs.

"Archibald Wofford, do you know why we've brought you here today?" asked the tall witch at the front of the room, her voice echoing slightly off the rounded walls.

"Remind me."

His voice released the spine tingling effect of sharp blades on cold steel. At least he could not see her clearly, as she pressed her lips together and listened acutely, all other senses dropping to the background to enhance her sense of sound.

"Several months ago," the Wizengamot witch continued, her voice steady and strong, "you were overheard by Azkaban guards discussing your illegal possession of a chest of gold coins. We believe this to be related to the disappearance of a large sum from the Department of Mysteries in 1997. How do you respond?"

"Dunno what in bleedin' hell yer-"

"Mr Wofford, may we remind you that your current sentence is life in Azkaban, due to the brutal murder of Mr Ronald Weasley on the 12th of May, 1998. It can't get much worse for you. If you cooperate, we may be prepared to offer you a slightly more comfortable accommodation-"

"Y'give me less time in that hellhole, and I'll be considerin' it."

"Your sentence with regard to previous crimes is not up for debate at this hearing."

"Then fuck you."

"Your record shows a connection between yourself and Alcott Wright, who disappeared from his job in the Department of Mysteries just after the gold was stolen and who was found dead several days later in a Muggle hotel."

Hermione had to respect how smoothly his interrogator had moved forward, as if he had not spoken to her at all. The corner of Hermione's mouth almost turned up a bit.

"Yeah, and that's got nothin' t'do with me, has it."

"On the contrary, you were brought in and extensively questioned after his body was found. You may recall-"

"Found nothin' then, did ya? Got nothin' now."

"We are now quite sure that you were involved. And we believe there were others. We want names."

Hermione had suspected this, and now she had to force her way back through the wall she'd erected around the memory of finding Ron there in the woods, his gruesomely burned body and hair, wand in his hand, clothes ashy and charred… and the man before her now, standing over him, a snarling look on his face, wand pointing down at Ron's unmoving chest. She had to go back, desperately, because what if there _was_ a connection? What if this gold somehow had something to do with Ron's death? What if there were more bloody bastards out there who were responsible… who had got away? What if she could recall something, anything, that would give her… more?

 _Ron's lips pressed to hers so gently, and he smiled as they reached out for their Portkey. She was holding his hand, she was sure of it. But, as quickly as the world swirled around her, her back was slamming to the ground, vision blurred madly out of focus. Trees. Trees. The wind was moving through the branches of thick clusters of green trees._

 _She gasped achingly for breath._

 _And then, she could hear it. The rough, chaotic sounds of dried leaves and dirt kicked up, as if someone was being dragged-_

 _She quite abruptly regained the use of her limbs, and she forced herself to sit up, coughing furiously._

" _RON!"_

 _She couldn't see him._

 _Clutching her wand in a shaking hand, her eyes darted toward a slope angling sharply down to her right. She could hear the continued noises of shuffling feet in the distance. Sobbing out her next breath, she scrambled to her feet._

" _RONNN!"_

 _She bolted as fast as she could on recovering legs and wheezing lungs. It had been a while since she'd been hit so directly with such a powerful stunner, which she might have found surprising, given the fact that she was already back on her feet. But she was beyond considering that now - she had to get to him. He wasn't calling back to her. Either he'd been stunned as well, or… or…_

 _The was a flash of red light, and she threw herself to the ground, but she wasn't quick enough. The curse stabbed through her side, black dots popping in front of her eyes until she saw nothing more._

 _When she opened her eyes again, it could have been minutes… or hours. How could she know? She'd always relied on Ron's watch for the time-_

 _Gasping again, eyes wide, she scrambled to her feet and cried._

" _RON!"_

 _Onward. Her feet slipped through the leaves, and she was almost there… she could almost see over the embankment-_

 _Flames erupted without warning over the sloping hill, and she half-ran, half-slid down it in her haste to reach whatever was happening. And then, as quickly as it had started, the fire died low and just out of sight… just out of sight until-_

 _She skidded down the final ridge, tumbling over the edge of a jutting rock and only just managing to catch her balance. Until she saw it._

 _Ron was lying on his back, on the ground, swirls of smoke emanating from his clothes and hair and skin and- and._

 _It couldn't be real._

 _Nothing like this could ever be real._

 _It was a Boggart. Yes. Or, she was asleep, still passed out on the ground, a horrifying nightmare swimming in her subconscious. She needed Ron to wake her up._

Come wake me up!

 _A filthy wizard with tanned skin and greasy jet black hair was standing over Ron, wand aimed at his chest._

 _Ron's chest wasn't moving._

 _She couldn't breathe._

 _Ron's face was… She could hardly see straight, vision blurring at the edges. His face was badly burned, black and red and-_

 _This was not happening. This was not happening._

" _EXPELLIARMUS!"_

 _Her voice could not be her own. So loud and fierce and full of rage. But the wizard's wand soared from his grip, only she was running forward, and she let it fall to the leaves behind her._

" _STUPEFY!"_

 _He fell backward to the ground, a look of surprise twitching across his face, but she collapsed by Ron's body, letting her wand slide from her fingers as she grasped his charred shirt in both hands. And shook. And desperately shook._

" _Please, ppplease!" she sobbed, nails digging into her own hands though his shirt._

 _Wheezing for breath, the spell came to her, one hand darting back to her wand again, and she aimed it at his chest._

" _Rennervate!"_

 _Nothing… nothing but the sound of a gentle gust of wind rustling overhead… warm, bright sun speckling through summer-green leaves._

 _A bird chirped in the distance._

" _RENNERVATE!"_

 _A series of cracks sounded out behind her, and she felt her wand slip out of her hand again, rolling half-buried in the crushed leaves beside her._

" _No no no no-"_

 _She leaned over Ron's body, pressing her ear to his scorched chest, one hand clutching his shoulder and the other trapped between her body and his._

" _Ron! Hermione!"_

 _Harry's voice called out behind her, and she heard scrambling footsteps approaching, but she could not reply._

" _Ron, please," she whispered, voice breaking._

" _STOP!"_

 _Harry's booming voice echoed through the trees, and it was only then that she realised the man she'd stunned had gotten to his feet again. Harry was panting hard, metres away, wand aimed directly at man's chest. And, behind Harry, Kingsley approached quickly with two wizards and a witch she didn't recognise. Aurors, likely._

" _Hermione, is he, is he-"_

 _Harry's face went ashen with shock, as he turned to see… and Hermione could hear nothing more but the sounds of her own sobs as she clutched the lifeless body underneath her._

" _No." Harry was immovable, a blank expression staring down at her._

" _T-Tell me it's a dream!" Hermione begged, at a near whisper, and Harry broke._

" _He can't… no." He began to shake, head to toe, and the sight of it startled her momentarily back to reality, to time and place and rage._

" _He killed him," she said, surprisingly even, letting go and sitting up, eyes locked on the wizard who was now surrounded by four wands and a glaring pair of murderous eyes._

 _She stood so abruptly that two of the Aurors whipped their faces toward her, startled._

" _YOU FUCKING KILLED HIM!"_

 _And then she ran, full force, hands clenched to white-knuckled fists and sweat running down the back of her neck, hair flying out in chaos behind her._

" _Hermione."_

 _But Kingsley's voice was drowned out by the pounding of furious blood through her ears._

 _She was inches away from him. She'd kill him with her bare hands. There would be no consequences bad enough to stop her. But two pairs of strong arms tore her backward, and she screamed. The Aurors had grabbed her, restraining her, damn them. She didn't want to be stopped. She writhed in their grip, desperate to escape, when a flash of jet black flew past her._

" _Harry!" Kingsley called out, but he wasn't listening._

 _Harry's fist collided with the killer's face with a sickening crunch, and blood ran thick from his nose as he stumbled backward._

 _Harry lunged forward for another blow, but Kingsley had reached him, gripping both of Harry's arms in tight fists from behind._

" _Stop." Harry struggled to break free. "He'll pay," Kingsley said evenly, though his own anger was barely contained. "He'll pay for it. We've got him. Stop."_

 _Harry's body finally stilled, and the Aurors behind Hermione released her cautiously, moving forward and magically binding the killer's arms and legs. It was only as she watched, briefly paralysed, that she realised she could not remain standing on her own for much longer._

 _There was only one thing that she needed, one thing that could make it better. And he was dead on the ground behind her._

 _He was dead. He was dead._

 _She fell to the ground and crawled back to him, twigs cutting through her jeans. And then Harry was with her, both of them clutching Ron's burned arms and chest as they leaned over opposite sides of his body, Harry's hand finding the back of her shirt and gripping it in a tight fist._

 _Moments later, she could no longer tell whose sobs were whose._

 _And that was all._

She still wasn't sure how long she'd been there, on the ground, with Harry… wanting to die... wshing the Aurors had not arrived in time and that Archie had killed her as well. She would not be strong enough to do it herself.

But she had woken sometime later, at St Mungo's, with a row of potions on the table next to her bed. Take them for nightmares. Take them to ease the pain. Take enough of them and maybe she'd forget…

"Even if I knew their names, I'd never tell you," Archie was saying, in that cold, spitting voice, bringing her back to the present.

"We can order Veritaserum-"

"Go on, then."

"Mr Wofford, you've been given an opportunity to cooperate today. If you wish to remain hostile, we will return you to your cell and you will lose your chance."

He did spit then, roughly on the marble floors, and the Wizengamot witch nodded toward the door through which he'd arrived. His guards approached and released his magical restraints, but they kept him tightly locked in his chains as they dragged him to his feet. And Hermione watched in stony silence as they disappeared back out through the door.

The Wizengamot began packing up their notes, but the presiding witch stepped down from her platform, and Hermione moved to meet her in the centre of the room. The older woman nodded solemnly toward her as she spoke.

"Miss Granger."

"Yes, hello."

"We will keep you informed if anything develops from here, but I can tell you from the evidence we do have that it is unlikely that anything will further coincide with your case."

"Yes. I thought so, but I appreciate the Wizengamot allowing me to be here today. I know you're already aware but… it's very important to me."

"Yes." Her expression shifted to something just shy of pity before she spoke again. "You know, often a prisoner will come to a decision later to cooperate, once they've had time to consider their options. Otherwise, we'll be continuing our investigation by other means."

And now she had to face the one fear that would not leave her. It might be her only chance to be sure.

"But… he won't get out? You won't change his sentence?"

"No. I can confidently assure you that that will not happen."

Hermione nodded, letting these words wash over her. He would die a slow, rotting death in Azkaban prison, just as she had been promised at his trial six and a half years ago. She was safe, at least, and almost comforted in the reassurance now of that promise.

* * *

A spider had found its way into his tiny room. Bugger must have crawled in when they'd opened the door to drop off his sorry excuse for a meal, he thought, warily eyeing it from a couple of metres away. His mostly empty bowl of cold, mushy stew was lying on the floor by the opposite wall… serving as bait. At least maybe the spider would be too preoccupied with the dirty dish to come near him while he slept. He could kill it, he reckoned, but that would require him to get quite close to the ruddy thing…

He was reminded, as he sat on the edge of the stone slab he called a bed, of the last time he'd thought about bloody spiders, the last time he'd held an old, distant memory in his hands. Next thing he knew, he was thinking of George and the shop, and his eyes were wet. He was supposed to be there with him… with all of them.

The spider moved, circling the edge of his dish before scuttling to the juncture of wall and floor, freezing there, fortunately still far away. And, as he stared, he stumbled down a tunnel of memories, thinking all at once of Fred and thunderstorms and Hermione and warm skin…

 _They walked quickly back inside the house, briefly greeted by his mum as they removed their shoes at the door, heading upstairs and parting ways outside Ginny's room to change out of their drenched clothes. He'd climbed the rest of the way to his attic bedroom alone, pushing the door lazily half-shut behind him and reaching to undo his belt buckle. The storm continued, pounding and flashing outside his window, against his slanted roof, and he pulled off his wet shirt, tossing it to the basket by his trunk, which had been gradually filling with dirty clothes since their return._

 _This highlighted the point that he could easily be out of clean shirts, and he rummaged through his trunk, where Hermione had deposited his things from her bag upon their return from Hogwarts. As suspected, he found nothing but a single sock and a pair of pyjama bottoms, crushed in with torn sheets of parchment, a few candy wrappers, and a bath towel._

 _He picked up the towel and rubbed it quickly back and forth through his soaked hair, dropping it to his trunk again and making his way to his mostly empty chest of drawers, hoping for an old shirt that he might still be able to fit into. Crouching on the rug, he reached into the very back of the bottom drawer… and his fingers wrapped around the leg of a stuffed toy._

 _He didn't have to see it to know what it was, but he pulled it out anyway… and he stood, staring down at the worn brown fur of the teddy bear in his hands._

 _An image passed through his memory of eight legs writhing from the back of the toy, and his eyes filled surprisingly with tears, blurring his vision._

 _He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, staring down at his shaking hands, before he heard her voice._

" _Ron?"_

 _She tentatively pushed against his unlatched bedroom door, and it swung open, but he was crying too hard to answer her._

" _What's wrong?!"_

 _She flew into his room, cool hand wrapping around his forearm, and he dropped the teddy bear to the floor, turning toward her and tugging her against him, arms tight around her neck as he dropped his face to her wet hair. She clung back to him just as fiercely, her cheek pressed to his naked chest._

" _Ron…" she whispered, voice trembling with concern._

 _Her hands flattened to his bare back, and he closed his eyes._

" _Please," she begged, sounding so small and frightened, "can you try to tell me what happened? You're scaring me-"_

" _M'sssorry," he sobbed. "Bloody t-toy reminded me of F-Fred."_

 _He felt her body tense as she took in his words, and then she breathed out slowly, warm against his bicep. Her hands shifted on his back until she was running the tips of her fingers up and down._

" _I'm so sorry," she whispered, and he buried one hand in her hair, spreading the other across her shoulder._

 _They said nothing else for a long while, just holding each other, the only sounds coming from the storm outside and Ron's occasional sniff as his breathing slowed. Eventually, he smiled softly into her curls, eyes still watering a bit._

 _There were so many different feelings, all rowing for first place. There had been, before she'd touched him, only the one… the all-consuming grief he'd managed to forget, misplaced as he'd distracted himself with her since the night before. Now that she was here, it wasn't that the grief was gone - only that he felt like he could carry it._

 _Then, there was everything else. There was the way every part of him wanted her. He recalled when he'd realised he needed her, in that sort of selfish way of a thirteen year old who relied too heavily on his friend's neatly hand-written notes to complete his revising, ignoring the fact that he was making too many excuses, focusing a bit more than was strictly normal on her eating habits and course schedules. But needing had turned to something else, something so much more. He'd been quite afraid of it for quite a long time. He'd gone from paying far too much attention to the way her hair fell over her shoulders, the way the Common Room fire danced in her pupils, the way the outside of her thigh felt pressed against his on the sofa… to an aching longing, intensified by the fact that he saw himself as far less than what she wanted. It was never her fault, her intention, or even her mistake._

 _And all it had taken for him to release it had been weeks and weeks away from them and a burning fear that she would never forgive him._

 _Harry's words would echo to him in the night, a sort of hopeful spark that he had meant a lot more to her than he'd allowed himself to believe. She'd cried for weeks, when he'd been gone. He shouldn't keep hearing it, keep imagining her curled on her bunk and sobbing… If it was painful to imagine her hurting because of him, then it didn't matter how it made him feel to know that it also meant she had cared. He didn't want it like that._

 _That was when needing her had become entirely focused_ _on her, no longer twisted around what he wanted, his fears, his doubts… those moments in the tent when he'd quietly done the washing and cooked their meals and left her sleeping for hours after her watch should have started. He needed her… to be okay. He needed her to be happy. He needed her to have anything in the world that would give her that and nothing else._

 _Even if that would never be him. Even as he ached to touch her, to tell her. Even as he knew that he'd never wanted anything more in his whole life than for her to want him back._

 _And now, she was here._

 _She lifted her head from his chest, and he hadn't realised she'd been crying as well until just then, seeing her bloodshot eyes and wet lashes gazing up at him._

" _I thought you'd be downstairs," she said quietly, "but when you didn't show up after a while…"_

" _I was looking for a clean shirt."_

 _She seemed to only just then think about the fact that he was half-naked and she was holding onto him. A light flush crept up her cheeks, and her tongue darted out across her bottom lip._

" _You couldn't find one?"_

" _Got distracted by the damn teddy bear," he said, managing a crooked smile._

 _Her hand brushed down his back, and she stepped away from him._

" _I can help."_

 _She moved behind him and crouched to his open bottom drawer, reaching inside._

" _You mind if I take these off?" he asked, indicating his drenched jeans._

 _She glanced up briefly and shook her head, so he yanked his way out of them, leaving them on the floor before taking the two steps necessary to cross his room and sit on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees. As she pulled out a few wrinkled shirts and sat fully on the floor to look through them, he watched her silently, eyes burning from crying and a foggy sort of half-headache forming._

" _How about this one?"_

 _She held up an old, nearly see-through, light grey one. He could only distantly recall ever wearing it, but it didn't seem too terribly small at first glance, so he shrugged, and she got up to hand it to him. He sniffed and pulled it on. It was a bit tight across the chest and under the arms, but it would do._

 _She was watching him with a new sort of expression, which was surprising, because he'd thought he'd likely have seen every one of her looks before. Only… only they hadn't been openly sharing their bloody feelings and snogging in the woods, before…_

 _She sat softly next to him, and he sniffed again, nodding toward the teddy bear, lying on the floor._

" _Fred transfigured it when I was little."_

" _I remember you telling me," she smiled sadly._

" _Wonder if I'll cry every bloody time I see a spider now, too," he chuckled, rubbing his eyes._

 _She rested her head on his shoulder, and he breathed deeply a couple of times before shifting around, prompting her to lift her head again and curiously find his eyes. He reached up, held her face in one hand, gripped her hand in the other, and just looked at her._

" _I know I'm sort of rubbish at saying what I mean, but… I couldn't do this without you."_

" _Of course you could," she said softly back, though her voice wavered almost nervously._

" _Don't want to."_

 _A gentle smile spread slowly across her face, and she reached up with both hands to tilt his head down, pressing her lips to his forehead, through his wet fringe, as he closed his eyes._

Just like he could with every other kiss, he could still feel her lips on his skin from that day.

When he tried to imagine her in reality now, she was so, so far away, and a hazy darkness surrounded her. His picture was so unclear, a life in a future he'd never comprehended. He wasn't supposed to ever be without her, not unless she'd asked him to go.

He was here because of sodding gold. They'd taken him away from his life, from her, from everything. Ripped him from them and left him here to give them what they wanted… and die.

He hadn't noticed his change in breathing until it was too late. Chest heaving, hot air exhaling through his nose, inhaling with a growl… and he leapt from his stone cot, darting for the nearest wall, slamming his fist into it.

"FUCK YOU!"

He pummeled the wall with both fists, forearms, head occasionally pressed to cold steel. He kept going and going, hardly aware of what he was doing, until his eyes drifted shut, the room was spinning, and his back was coated in a fresh layer of sweat, soaked through his filthy-beyond-recognition shirt… clothes they'd put him in after they'd stolen his own for the corpse they'd left in his place.

And then, slowly… he was collapsing to the floor, knees scraping rough stone. He blinked at the wall, feeling numb.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted the spider, slipping as it tried to escape up the wall to his right. He turned his head toward it, staring… blank, cold. It hesitated, for a moment… and he moved without thought, rapidly slapping his large palm over it, killing it instantly.

His next breath caught in his throat, and he held it there, staring at his own hand, unwilling to move it away just yet and see what he'd done.

He'd never, ever done this before. And, as his adrenaline and rage faded back, his old familiar fear began tickling at the back of his neck, making his skin crawl.

"Bloody hell…"

He lifted his hand, holding it far away from his face as he crawled awkwardly to the tin of water they'd left him with supper. It was fortunate he hadn't finished it, because there was just enough left to rinse his hand, wiping it dry on his filthy jeans. God, what he wouldn't give for a bath.

Especially now, after-

"I killed a fucking spider, Hermione," he laughed in a thick, raspy voice… but his smile faltered.

He hadn't said her name before this moment… He hadn't said it since he'd woken here in hell.

It seemed to fill the room with warmth… but bringing with it so much pain.

Would he ever really see her again? Did he have a chance at all?

He crawled back to his stone bed, pulled himself up on top of it, and curled up on his side, facing the wall, back toward the rest of his room and the door. It had been so wonderfully, achingly familiar, to feel the way his lips moved around the word, the sound of his own voice. It wouldn't hurt to say it again. Just one more time.

"Hermione."

* * *

It really was a bad night to be left alone, she thought, but Ginny was at Quidditch practice and Harry was still out with the Aurors, and she didn't want to see anyone else tonight. It was also objectively unwise, she considered, to open a fresh bottle of firewhisky, one she only had at her flat to begin when she'd had to prepare for those scattered, final dates with Duncan, and she'd taken to drinking a bit before walking to his flat after work… But she did it anyway, not bothering to pour out the contents into a glass. Straight from the bottle, before she could convince herself to stop.

It was a miracle, in some ways, that she'd made it past supper without breaking down. She tried, on a daily basis, not to think of him that day. Not to see his body on the ground in the woods- …but she'd had to, today.

She took another long drink and squeezed her eyes shut tight.

It could have been another hour… or two… or three when she finally stumbled toward her bedroom, shedding her clothes as she went. Her wardrobe door was slightly ajar, and she pressed an unsteady hand against it to force it closed. But it was old and the latch was weak, and it slowly drifted an inch open again.

" _Hermione."_

She froze, one step away from her bed, skin prickling with goosepimples.

But the voice had been low and scratchy and almost unintelligible and clearly just inside her own head, rattled from the day, sloshed on whisky… She sometimes heard him in her dreams, woke up shaking, and this was nothing different.

She crawled into bed, tugged her sheets roughly over her half-naked body, and closed her eyes. It wasn't long before she had drifted dizzily off to sleep…

A place where she could still hear his voice quite clearly, still picture the way his mouth moved when he said it, still imagine his hands on her face and in her hair.

" _Hermione_. _"_


	6. 6 Years, 11 Months, 18 Days

_**A/N:** Thanks again for reading and reviewing! I've gotten some lovely comments and suggestions the past few updates, and I've had some thought-provoking and very fun conversations with people, and it's been really great! I love hearing what people think about this crazy story, the countless considerations like the Weasley clock and Deluminator. Great stuff!_

 _Just a very quick bit of reality here and then on to the fic... please feel free to skip!_

 _There have also been some low, low points for me recently. I tend to either maniacally write or never want to write again when this happens. The second thing happened to me last week. I really appreciate everyone's patience in getting this next chapter edited and posted, and I want everyone to know how much I appreciate the continuous group hugs we give out here in R/Hr fandom. Life can be shitty and uncomfortable. Fandom has been a safe place for me more often than not. But sometimes people don't see how hurtful their words can be, and there is nothing you can do to explain it. I tend to struggle with being understood, but I've learned to adjust that a bit recently, because there are some things that are never going to work out, and that's okay. We can let them go._

 _I hope everyone has been doing well; that the people in your lives have been kind to you; and that fandom has been a wonderful, safe place for you. I love you all. x_

* * *

 **CHAPTER SIX:  
** **6 Years, 11 Months, 18 Days  
** **Saturday, 30 April, 2005**

Weeks blurred together, and she'd covered herself in work, spending many of her infrequent off hours with Harry and Ginny or going for walks in the cool, spring evenings, alone. Quidditch had kept Ginny quite busy herself, and though she practically lived at Harry's flat when she was home, they still weren't married, which Hermione had been itching to bring up. It wasn't until Harry started personally inviting everyone he knew to his own birthday, which was still two months away, that she'd put it together. She'd finally decided to bring it up to him, as she'd tugged on her light cloak, on her way out of her flat for the Wigtown Wanderers match.

She tried to make it to as many matches as she could manage, wanting to support Ginny, but she had to admit she found it slightly hard to maintain focus when one would stretch for hours and hours on end. Fortunately, today's match had ended swiftly, and, unsurprisingly, the Harpies had won. After becoming separated from Harry in the stands, Hermione had made her way back to the changing rooms to wait for Ginny. Two of the losing Wigtown team, still wearing their blood red robes, passed behind her, loudly arguing a play that had resulted in a missed goal, and Hermione moved out of their way, leaning against the wall just as Ginny ducked out from the loud sounds of laughter and celebration behind her.

"Oi, Lewis!" she called out to one of the Wigtown players, who had already made it to the end of the corridor. The taller of the two wizards turned to glance over his shoulder before dismissing his teammate and heading back down to greet Ginny.

"Weasley. Good game."

"Oh, don't be a kiss arse, MacKay. You'll be complaining about us to your mates all week."

"Alright," he conceded, grinning, "but so will you, and you've won."

"Fair point."

Ginny glanced back to where Hermione was standing, a few steps behind her, and she waved for her to come closer. "Lewis, this is my good friend, Hermione."

His eyebrows shot up before Hermione could acknowledge him.

"Granger?"

"Yes…" she answered warily.

"Sorry. Your name was all over the Prophet after-"

"-the war," Ginny filled in quickly, almost nervously.

"Oh. Of course."

The Harpies changing room door swung suddenly open again, and a tall girl Hermione recognised as a beater ducked out.

"Gin, get in here. We're making plans for tonight."

"Right. Back in a mo'..." And she vanished, closing the door behind her, leaving an awkward silence between Lewis and Hermione.

"Want to bet she's done that on purpose?" Lewis said, chuckling.

"Left us, you mean?"

"Yeah. I'll be honest," he started, shoving his hands into his robe pockets, "she's mentioned you before. Only she never said you were… she never gave your name."

She tried not to let this news affect her expression, though she wasn't entirely comfortable imagining Ginny talking about her to someone she didn't know. But then it occurred to her...

"How you know it's me she meant?"

"Ah, she described you a bit… told me at a gala a few weeks ago that we should meet, that you were a close friend from Hogwarts…"

"Oh."

This time she was _sure_ she hadn't properly disguised her expression of shy surprise. So, Ginny was trying to set her up…

"Didn't know I was meeting a celebrity," Lewis went on, either oblivious to or simply ignoring her embarrassment.

"Not even close…" she laughed, shoving a thick clump of hair behind her ear. "Anyway, you play for a professional Quidditch team. Aren't you used to-"

"Oh, there you are," Harry called suddenly from behind her, and she turned around to greet him, relieved by the interruption. "Thought I'd never get away from those damn reporters. You'd think they'd have better things to do than ask me the same bloody questions they were asking years ago…"

"Sorry," she winced. "I lost track of you and assumed this would be the best place to wait."

She turned back to face Lewis, who was watching them with an expression of mild disbelief.

"What were you saying about celebrities?" she teased, and he laughed, shaking his head. "Harry, this is Lewis. Ginny introduced us."

"Oh, hey." Harry reached out to shake Lewis' hand. "Good game."

"Thanks. Well… I'd better be off. Maybe we'll see each other later, Hermione?"

"Alright," she said softly, attempting a pleasant smile as he nodded and walked away.

Harry waited approximately three seconds after Lewis turned the corner at the end of the corridor before he smirked at her.

"Knew Ginny was up to something."

Hermione sighed, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Yeah, well… speaking of 'up to something'..."

Harry raised his brows over the rims of his glasses.

"What?"

"You're getting married, aren't you."

His eyes widened considerably, and he opened and closed his mouth, apparently unsure how to even respond.

"How-" he finally started, but she smiled and shook her head.

"You've never planned your own birthday and certainly not this far in advance."

He blinked at her, then sighed as he smiled, resigned.

"Is it that obvious?"

"No. And I won't tell anyone."

He nodded, but his expression morphed to one of remorse tinged with guilt.

"I really was going to tell you. I just… hadn't worked out what to say, exactly."

"It's fine, Harry."

"It isn't, really. You're…" he paused, shrugging. "You're my family. But…"

"I know."

"Do you?"

Of course she did, only she didn't feel much like discussing it. Clearing her throat, she went for the most concise answer she could give.

"You've been nervous to talk about yourself and Ginny because you're worried about me, but you shouldn't be. I'm fine."

He eyed her quite sceptically, and she wished he could drop it. But she also knew that this was important, that they'd prolonged their engagement at least in part because of her. It was never supposed to be like this…

"You _aren't_ , really…" Harry said slowly, and she swallowed, fighting feelings she didn't want to let surface just now.

"Alright. But I'm- I'm trying. Anyway, I'm really happy for you, and it's about time."

She could tell he wanted to say more about it, but it was fortunate he knew her as well as he did… and he knew when to drop it. There had been a time, not long ago, when she would have been the one pressing and nagging him to speak when he hadn't wanted to, when he'd been lost in his head and brooding and she'd pushed a bit too far.

"We don't want a big thing," he said, instead, "and this way people won't have any expectations. Ginny thought we should tell her parents, especially since the birthday party was being planned at the Burrow anyway… so we're giving them the news a few weeks before. Gin doesn't think her mum can keep it secret for long, which… yeah. She's probably right about that."

They shared a small, knowing laugh at this, and Harry pushed his glasses up his nose as they both leaned back against the wall, next to each other.

"Gin figured I'd want you as best man," he grinned, "but she'd want you for maid of honour, too, so… We thought we'd let you do whatever you wanted beforehand, for both of us… but, like I said, there's not much to plan."

"I'd love to help with anything you need," she smiled, forcing herself to avoid thoughts of exactly why Harry would want her to stand by him at his wedding instead of-

"Great. I'm glad you figured it out, really."

"Saved you having to work up to telling me, haven't I." But she smiled again, genuinely.

"Yeah," he smiled back, just as Ginny's changing room door opened again, and she ducked out to join them.

"No surprise, we're going to the pub," she announced. "Shall we?"

* * *

"It's in a dark room… it's cold there," Ron said, voice thick and raspy from lack of use but clear enough to understand.

Mathilda's dark eyes flashed expectantly down to his. He'd learned how to give her hope, just enough to stay alive. But she'd be wanting more.

She gripped her niece's arms in two tight fists, shaking her.

"Had you been there before? Come on, girl! Where's this bloody room?"

"She's not sure…" Ron said slowly. He'd stopped reading her mind weeks ago, having learned everything he could possibly need to know. Now, it was a delicately calculated chess game, and he'd be losing soon. "The memory isn't clear. I think she needs more ti-"

"More time! We've waited seven fucking years for this!" He watched as Mathilda's nails dug painfully into Evelyn's arm, but she barely flinched. And then Matilda's sharp eyes were on his again. "Or maybe you're just bleeding lying to us."

"Why would I lie?" he croaked back. "You'll kill me."

"He's right," said Graham, from where he stood by the opposite wall. "Been awake over a year and not done nothin', has he. And we knew this bollocks would take time. He can't escape, can't survive unless he tells us what we're askin'."

"Over a year, yes," Matilda hissed, "and we don't know a goddamn thing! Isaac."

Isaac moved forward from the shadows, and Ron felt a chill roll down his spine. This was the man who could hurt him the most, the one who could kill him by mistake from cutting too deep or hitting him one too many times…

Ron's breathing quickened, muscles tightened, anticipating what came next. And he couldn't fight back.

It felt never ending, this time, blow after blow, two ferocious kicks to the ribs, a chunk of his hair ripped out from the back, a sharp slice when his own teeth cut through his lip as a set of bony knuckles slammed across his face… once, twice, three times… losing count.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to pass out, knowing they'd stop then. Maybe _only_ then.

But time stretched… on and on. Pain throbbed through every part of him so he could scarcely tell where he was being hit, which bruise was fresh.

On and on and on…

* * *

Hermione and Ginny were sitting on the sofa at Harry's, waiting for him to return with dinner, as soft sounds of instrumental music wafted from the wireless. Hermione was deeply engrossed in a confusing legal passage on page seven hundred and eighty-two of the giant book that was currently crushing her thighs as her eyes and the tip of an ink-stained finger darted back and forth.

"You're gonna sprain something," Ginny teased, watching Hermione with raised brows as she stretched and lifted her own feet to rest casually on the coffee table. "Honestly, give it a break. You're stressing me out."

"Hang on…" Hermione responded under her breath, not looking away from her book. She could get lost here, in work, and though Ginny often told her to slow down, she preferred it this way. When her brain was working this hard, all those other thoughts and feelings slipped away, vanished to the background where she didn't have to face them.

Ginny shifted around for a moment, making herself comfortable as she rested her head on the back of the sofa. But it wasn't long before she turned to look over at Hermione again.

"What are you doing next week?"

This unexpected question had the likely intended effect of throwing Hermione off guard just enough to finally look up.

"What do you mean?"

"You know," Ginny said softly, clearing her throat, "for the anniversary."

"Oh."

"I've been thinking… maybe you should get away from here, spend some time with your parents in Australia?"

"You're right," Hermione agreed, finally closing her book over a scrap of parchment, "and I've already booked my flight."

"Have you?"

She nodded and moved her book off her lap to rest heavily on her side of the coffee table, tucking her feet underneath her. As much time as it took to travel the Muggle way, she'd not used a Portkey since 1998. And she'd grown to enjoy the long flight in a way, a chance to switch gears from her life in London to seeing her parents, who had chosen to go on living seventeen thousand kilometres away from her…

"I'm staying through the fifteenth," she added, knowing Ginny would understand and she wouldn't have to say it… that she didn't want to be here in London on the date he'd died. She'd done so in the past and usually regretted it. Maybe a part of her had still wanted to grieve, and she was torn even now, thinking of how hard it would be to act pleasant for her family. But there would be distractions, so far away. And she hadn't seen her parents since Christmas.

"Good," Ginny said simply, offering a small smile just as Harry walked through the door with dinner.

* * *

He'd lost all consciousness of time, in those scattered, hazy moments when he'd woken, metallic tasting water forced down his throat, choking… vision blurring and lantern light swimming nauseatingly off his steel walls. Then, they'd made him eat, spoonfuls of mushy peas and potatoes forced through chapped, bloody lips.

Gradually, he became aware of a thin blanket over his legs, plasters tied too tight around his head and chest, aching when he coughed… when he breathed too deep. He fell in and out of confusing dreams, almost nightmares but never enough to recall with detail, and he woke once to tears coating his face, salt water stinging a gash down his left cheek. An active part of his brain wondered if he'd recognise his own face, if he could see his reflection.

It could have been days later - weeks, even - when Bern, the older man he hardly ever saw, hovered over him with a thick, cold paste, covering his skin with it, filling the small room with the familiar scent of strong herbs… something to ease his pain, laced with Dittany?

He dozed again, for who knew how long, fitfully tossing on hard stone, joints aching. Had they left him to die? Had they finally gone too far?

It wasn't until his dreams at last drew a clear picture that he found a grain of strength again, the smallest pinhole of light in deep, velvety darkness. It was simple, really, just a fragment of memory as he'd been walking two paces behind Harry and Hermione at Hogwarts, arriving at the bottom of a staircase which lead to a wide, open corridor. Harry had said something that had made him laugh, and he felt it even now, even in delirium, stomach muscles clenching as a bubble of happiness rose up. And then Hermione had turned to look back at him, over her shoulder… with this _smile_. This almost secretive smile, meant only for him to see. And as he'd grinned back, beams of golden sunlight had caught in her hair, and he'd forgotten what Harry had said entirely, unable to look away even as she'd turned forward again.

If that part of him still existed, even in sleep, that part that could still feel joy and love… alive… then he was still here. He hadn't given up.

* * *

 **Friday, 13 May, 2005**

It was two days before her flight home from Adelaide when she'd heard the news.

Archie Wofford had listed names after all, and the Wizengamot had halted their request for an order of Veritaserum, now focused instead on tracking down records of the three wizards he'd implicated. She wanted to look away, to stop her mind from working a case that could only lead her further backward. It wasn't her mystery to solve… but she'd never been good at leaving things alone.

She tossed over in the guest bed at her parents' house, far too reminded here of his attic bedroom at the Burrow… slanted roof over her head, exposed wooden beams and narrow windows.

Her mother had asked to do her washing for her, tomorrow, before she flew home, but she'd been politely trying to refuse. Every bit of her ached with memory, woven into a giant tapestry of her life so far. He was always going to be such a significant part of her. She'd never be able to forget the details that had threaded themselves into her very being, even something as mundane as those tiny, almost imperceptible habits she'd picked up, soft expressions and twitches and the tapping of a foot when she was anxious… the way her mouth naturally slanted just a bit to the right when she smiled…

The guest room was stuffy and warm, and she peeled off her blanket, even shifting the thin sheet down to her waist as she exhaled slowly. They'd become adults together, lived together, navigated that hollow feeling of no longer belonging at home. She knew the day and the hour she'd first felt it, really felt it… how the heat of early summer had washed over the gardens and pond at the Burrow, how they'd known they'd always be there for each other…

 _They'd grown strangely accustomed to being on their own, and not just in the ways she had thought. It was difficult to imagine taking baskets of washing down to Mrs Weasley now, odd to have a meal prepared for them, to be given lists of chores to do…_

 _She hadn't consciously considered it at first, but, after realising Ron wasn't taking his clothes to be washed either, and after watching him degnome the garden the following afternoon in the same, tight, threadbare shirt she'd found buried in his drawer the day before, she'd disappeared to Ginny's room and gathered her own clothes before making her way to Ron's, dumping hers on top of his in the basket by his window, and Apparating back down to the garden with the lot._

" _Harry, do you need any washing done?" she called out to him, where he was helping Ron by chucking two gnomes at once in a high arc over the hedges._

" _Could do, maybe," he called back, before he turned around to face her. "Why?"_

" _Thought I'd work on our clothes. Ron's run out of clean shirts."_

" _Yeah? That explains this grotty one he's got on today…"_

 _Harry tugged Ron's shirt sleeve, and Ron playfully slapped Harry's hand away before he pushed his fringe off his sweaty forehead and faced Hermione as well._

" _Mum's got all we'd need to do it properly, inside," he pointed out._

" _I know… but everything feels different now. I can't explain it."_

" _No, I feel the same way, really," he said as he moved closer to her, and she was overcome for a moment by his bright, blue eyes on her… and the way his tight, sweaty shirt was clinging to his chest… "Reckon that's why I hadn't done it yet myself. I'll help, but let's go to the pond where Mum won't see us and think we've gone mental."_

" _Bring down yours, Harry," Hermione said a bit breathlessly, as Harry wiped his dirty palms along the thighs of his jeans._

" _That's alright," he shrugged. "I'll get to it later. Have you seen Ginny?"_

" _In the kitchen," Hermione answered, without looking at him._

 _He nodded and set off, leaving the two of them to levitate Ron's basket and walk through overgrown green weeds and twisted trees to the pond._

 _The sun was shimmering brilliantly off the surface, and she was reminded quite strikingly of those lovely few early spring days they'd had in the tent, just before the Manor… when she'd let her guard down, stopped reminding him of how he'd left them, started to feel safe and comforted by his presence again. They'd walked round a small lake, collecting edible plants and hanging wet clothes up to charm dry, and he'd made a joke about pushing her in the water. She'd laughed and tugged his jumper sleeve, forcing him closer to the edge of the lake until his eyes had gone wide, and he'd had to grab her around the waist and threaten to pull her in with him before she'd given up._

 _Now, it was hot enough that she considered the idea of a swim rather brilliant._

 _Ron lowered the basket to the ground, at which point it fully occurred to her that her bras and knickers were mixed in with his clothes… Before, she'd kept hers separate and washed them on her own, only hanging out her jeans and shirts and jumpers with his and Harry's. Perhaps it was only fair though now, considering she had taken it upon herself last summer to pack his pants for him… She pressed her lips together thinking about it, recalling how adorably embarrassed he had seemed when she'd mentioned it._

" _Want to do yours, and I'll do mine?" he asked, interrupting her thoughts._

" _Doesn't matter to me," she said softly, and he glanced over to smile at her. Something about the way his mouth tugged up further on the right, as if he was narrowly avoiding a smirk, made her suspect he felt the same way that she did, that unexplainable giddiness at being so… together._

 _Her mind briefly jumped tracks to wondering if her clothes already smelled like him, from being in his basket all of ten minutes… She cleared her throat and bent to grab a few things from the top, he draped several shirts over his arm, and they made their way to the edge of the pond to wash them. A couple of cleansing and rinsing charms later, they were hanging the first batch up to charm dry over the barren branches of a dying tree._

" _Should we tell your parents about Australia?" she asked, as they went back to the basket for second armfuls of clothes._

" _Thought about that," he said, "but it's prob'ly best to wait til we've got the day figured out."_

" _Kingsley said he'll know by the weekend. Will your mum be upset we're leaving again so soon?"_

 _He shook out a pair of wrinkled jeans and swished his wand at them._

" _Nah. Reckon she'd want me to go with you. Might be a bit tricky explaining what you did though…"_

 _She sniffed, feeling anxious again as they worked in silence for a few minutes._

" _What if I can't fix it?" she finally said in a tiny voice, not looking at him. She honestly didn't know if she wanted him to respond. He'd try to reassure her, but this probably wasn't something she'd feel any better about from simply talking it through._

" _Sure you can," he said, as she had predicted, and her stomach flipped over uncomfortably at his confidence. She felt no such thing about herself, at the moment._

" _You don't know that," she sighed, finished with her clothes and turning away from him to walk back to the tree, hanging things methodically as he joined her again._

" _Yeah, I do," he said simply, draping his jeans over a thick limb._

" _Well, you shouldn't," she snapped back, a bit more harshly than she'd probably intended, but her throat was constricted with worry now, and this felt familiar. It was what she always did… anger making it easier to keep from crying. "I've never done anything like this before."_

 _He was silent then for quite a long while, long enough that they had finished the rest of their clothes, and her eyes were burning as she sharply moved to hang the last of her jumpers up to dry._

" _Look," he finally said, brushing his fringe out of his eyes and turning to face her, "whenever you'd compliment me on something I'd done or some idea I'd had… it made me feel like maybe I wasn't rubbish. I know it's different for you 'cause you're bloody brilliant, and you're worried I think you can do anything… which is also probably true…"_

 _He paused to give her a small, crooked smile, but he didn't wait long enough for her to speak before he continued._

" _But, y'know, it's not like I've just got blind confidence that you can do it. You say you've never done this before, but that's been true about practically every bloody thing we've done since we met. Harry and I'd be dead a few hundred times now if not for you-"_

" _I'd be dead if it wasn't for you."_

 _His expression changed immediately, brows knitting and slanting as his eyes held her gaze with a deep sort of fearful sadness._

" _Don't say that."_

" _It's true. If you hadn't come back…"_

 _She could still hear him screaming her name from that dungeon, his strong voice echoing off the walls. She often heard it in her sleep, even now._

 _She swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment, not really wanting to talk about this anymore. But memories and emotions seemed to weave much too tightly together, and it was hard to separate them._

" _But… we aren't alone, this time," he said softly._

 _Her eyes found his again, and she searched for exactly what he could mean. He must have sensed her question, because she didn't have to ask._

" _If you can't fix your parents' memories, we can ask for help."_

" _You mean admit what I did to the Ministry?" she started, slightly panicked. "We can't. Ron, they're Muggles, and it was illegal to-"_

" _I know, but come on. We broke into sodding Gringotts, and they're not gonna put us in Azkaban."_

 _A part of her really wanted to argue, but why? He was probably right. Kingsley would be discreet, and he already had been, really. He was keeping their travel plans confidential and had asked no questions aside from what was necessary._

 _She sighed heavily, watching as Ron carefully took a step closer._

" _It's gonna be fine," he said in a low voice, hopeful encouragement shining in his eyes._

 _She waited in silence for what felt like a full minute, just looking at him, the way the sun sparked in his hair, his freckles even more pronounced in bright daylight._

" _Okay," she finally said, and his eyebrows lifted with mild surprise._

" _Okay?"_

 _She nodded, managed a small smile, and stepped closer._

" _You know," she began, focused on keeping her voice from wavering, "your shirt's all sweaty and dirty from working in the garden. You really should wash it, too, while we're already here…"_

 _He blinked at her before clearing his throat, cheeks going a bit pinker than they already had been from the heat. But then he reached over his shoulder and tugged his shirt off over his head, dropping it to the ground._

" _It's really hot out today," she said, almost under her breath. Her own shirt was sticking to her back a bit, and she watched his neck move as he swallowed, before her gaze slid down over his bare chest._

" _There's a pond just there," he said, voice much lower than it had been before, and she looked up to see him attempt a small grin, but he seemed equally distracted by her proximity._

 _He was close enough now that she could easily reach up and clasp her hands behind his neck. So, she did… and he ducked to kiss her as she closed her eyes. It seemed to take less and less time to go from a soft kiss to wanting much, much more, and she could feel his chest vibrate against hers as she pushed up on her toes and pressed the front of her body tight against his. Suddenly, his arms were wrapping quite tight around her waist, and she pulled her mouth away from his. But she didn't have time to speak before he had picked her up. She squealed with surprise, gripping him tighter around the neck as he hauled her to the small dock that jutted out a couple of metres into the pond… and jumped in._

 _They separated on impact, completely submerging in the water, and when she surfaced again, sputtering wet hair out of her mouth, he was laughing, eyes squinted against the bright sun and reflective surface of the water._

" _I hate you!" she laughed back, shaking her head as her legs flailed to find the muddy bottom of the pond. She swished a hand sharply through the water, sending a wave to splash against his face. He flinched and wiped his eyes, blinking._

" _I warned you!" he grinned, clearly quite far from sorry._

" _You only_ mentioned _the pond, not that you were planning to throw me in it!"_

" _I'm in here, too, aren't I?"_

 _She splashed him again before moving to a slightly more shallow area, where her feet could easily touch the bottom, and he followed her, scooping an arm under the water, around her waist, and tugging her against him. She laughed as she gripped his arms to steady herself, but their expressions changed slowly as they stared back at each other, so close. He moved a hand up to cup the side of her neck, and she sighed, leaning automatically into his touch. His thumb brushed across her jaw, and she slid her hands up over his shoulders, tilting her head to kiss the corner of his mouth. She felt him tremble as she slowly kissed across his cheek to his ear._

 _When she pulled back a bit, he reached down to hold her waist in both hands, and he ducked to plant his lips on the side of her neck. She gasped and closed her eyes, shocked by how amazing it felt, and she could feel his soft groans against her sensitive skin as she raked her nails across his scalp._

 _Weaving her fingers into his hair, she tugged him back from her neck again, only to brush her nose past his and kiss him properly. His teeth grazed her bottom lip, and her tongue met his, her slightly shaking hands now moving down from his hair to the back of his neck. His hands moved up from her waist to her back, palms spread across her thin, soaked shirt. The water was buoying her to his height, but with his knees bent a bit, it was hard to get as close as she wanted. So, she lifted her left leg, locked her heel behind his shin, and one of his hands moved shakily down to the back of her thigh. When he straightened his legs, the whole front of her body was suddenly against his, and they both moaned, breaking apart just enough to breathe, erratic bursts between swollen lips._

" _Seems a waste not to wash this, too," he smirked, tugging the back of her shirt, "y'know, while we're already here…"_

 _She breathed in heavily, chest pressed to his as she watched his grin falter and a deep flush creep up his neck._

" _You're right," she said, wondering if her voice sounded as high-pitched to him as it did to her._

 _She pushed back from him, looking away only for a second, long enough to work up the nerve to cross her arms and reach down, taking hold of the hem of her shirt, far under the water's surface, and tugging it off over her head. As she emerged from wet cotton, she watched him heave a breath of surprise, as if he hadn't really expected her to do it._

 _If she was still playing along, she should probably swim her shirt to the shore or the dock, under at least a vague pretense of having taken it off specifically to wash it, but… she really couldn't be bothered, and they moved at the same time, her shirt floating carelessly away, abandoned, as his arms circled her waist and hers flew around his neck, crushing her nearly bare upper body to his as he kissed her again._

 _This time, she knew how to get closer, almost without thinking it through. She floated in the water, feet no longer on the ground, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Startled by the intimacy of their new position, he broke away from her lips and made a sound like a low growl, eyes meeting hers as his hands gripped her arse and her eyes fluttered shut. She kissed him again, without opening her eyes to see where she was going, and her open mouth slid down from a spot just above his upper lip, catching his thumb in her mouth for a second as he reached up to hold her face in one hand. She arched against him, tongues touching and a shock of pleasure building down between her legs._

 _Every bit of her skin felt electrified, and she'd never known how sensitive it was until this moment, highly focused on the places where his own skin was touching hers._

 _Panting, he finally pulled back just enough to speak._

" _Sorry," he whispered against her mouth. "I know we weren't gonna-" He cut himself off and brushed his thumb across her cheek, licking his lips._

 _She didn't wait for him to say anything more, pressing her lips to his again instead. But she knew what he meant, and she tried to calm down a bit, taking things slowly now._

 _She could feel his heart pounding against her chest…_

… _and she could hear Ginny's laughter growing louder through the trees._

 _They pulled slowly apart again, and he rolled his eyes._

" _Almost forgot we're not really alone."_

" _Not much longer now," she said quietly back, and he smiled. "I'm sure Harry's with her. I should find my shirt…"_

" _Got it," he said, as she dropped her feet back to the ground, and he reached behind her to snatch it from the surface of the water. He handed it to her, and she pulled it on quickly… just in time, as Harry and Ginny emerged from the woods the moment she turned away from Ron._

" _Thought Harry said you were washing clothes," Ginny teased, raising an eyebrow at them from the shore._

" _Done it already!" Ron called back, only half-heartedly defensive._

 _Ginny stripped down to her swimming costume and walked out to the end of the dock, turning at the last second to jump off the side and send a massive wave to splash Ron across the face. By the time she emerged again, Ron had moved directly in front of her, and he easily dunked her back under the water._

 _The next hour was spent with the four of them swimming together, Ron occasionally tickling Hermione's sides under the water and even once kissing her on the top of the head while Ginny faked gagging sounds from the other side of the pond. And the feeling Hermione would remember the most, years later, was the indescribable way that it seemed like no time had passed at all since they'd last been here, all together… and, at the same time, as if it had been a full lifetime. The comfortable, familiar things remained the same, and the massive changes they faced didn't feel so daunting, knowing they faced them together._

The sun was rising outside her parents' house, and she hadn't slept. But, today, she was too numb to cry, haunted by the cruelty of having survived the war and glimpsed the beautiful future she'd never have.

If she could see him again, today, somehow, she knew… it would seem like no time had passed at all. And, at the same time, as if it had been a full lifetime.


	7. 7 Years, 17 Days

_**A/N:** So, here's the thing. I decided to go ahead and post this chapter because my next weekend is looking quite busy. However, I'm going to try to have chapter eight done before the following Saturday, so it shouldn't be a twelve day wait. _

_I have seen a few questions about the length of this story, and I mentioned in the first chapter's A/N that it was looking like ten chapters. That has probably gone up to eleven or twelve now, only because one of the remaining chapters is GIANT, and I might split it up. AND because I FINALLY came up with the ending, which I was really deliberating over, because I had an original ending in place that suddenly wasn't going to work due to a timeline mistake, and now I am really, really glad, because I think it's for the best... I prefer the new way :) I hope you will, too!_

 _So yeah, thank you all again for the amazing reviews, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! It is a bit choppier than previous chapters, because we move through a lot of time in this one. I hope you also appreciate how I handled things with Lewis. I don't think it's quite what some of you feared, which will hopefully be a good thing. x_

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVEN:  
** **7 Years, 17 Days  
** **Sunday, 29 May 2005**

She was going on a date, next weekend.

Lewis seemed nice enough, and he'd contacted her again after they'd met at the match. But if she spent too much time thinking about it - which of course she was doing - she had reservations about doing this again right now, and not just for her own sake.

She really didn't want to hurt him. But a big part of her problem was right there, staring back at her. She already assumed she would eventually hurt him, from the start. She assumed it would not work out. And that it would be her fault.

She'd spoken to Ginny about him, the previous night, and though Ginny had had good intentions in trying to set them up, it had come to Hermione's attention that nearly all of what Ginny really knew about Lewis had to do with his abilities and tendencies on the Quidditch pitch, which should have come as no surprise. And though Hermione had been around the game for many years with Hogwarts matches and now, with Ginny playing professionally, it wasn't exactly a topic of conversation to which she had much to contribute. Hopefully, she'd discover other interests he might have, or she could tell him about her work and he might find it mildly intriguing, because, aside from that, she had nothing she really wanted to discuss. God. Maybe she was just a boring person…

Of course she was ignoring the rather more 'exciting' aspects of her past. Her personal life was not something she felt at all comfortable sharing, even to the extent that her own parents knew next to nothing about what she had been through. And, she'd spoken to Ginny and Harry specifically about not repeating what had happened with Duncan - she didn't want Lewis to know about Ron.

Lewis was meeting her at a rather posh restaurant on Saturday night, and she hoped he wasn't hung up on this notion of her being famous and somehow expecting fancy dinners and expensive things as a result. She'd have to be sure to clear that up quickly, if so…

She was already shaking with nerves, she realised, and she had a week still to go before their date. She wondered cynically if she was simply meant to be alone. But she curled up on her side in the centre of her bed, listening to the sounds of the London traffic outside, below her flat. And she tried to let it drag her from her over-active brain, hypnotising herself with the noises of the city until she was drifting off to restless sleep.

* * *

He was nearly healed enough for them to use him again. Which also meant he had precious time before they'd bring Evelyn to him once more and expect answers. He'd been forcing himself to get up, though he'd had days when his head was swimming in a dizzy fog, and he'd been unable to stand for more than a few seconds without feeling like he was going to vomit. But he had a list of spells, the ones he thought he could use to escape, and he was nowhere close to mastering them yet.

Part of his trouble came with having no one to practice with, and his only option was going to be to hope that mastering a theoretical attempt would translate when the time came to use it on someone else. Though the spells were markedly different, he had to practice Accio, for example, as a substitute for disarming.

'Accio bowl' had been his mantra for the past several days.

He had also had an incredibly important revelation, just the previous night. He was going to have to directly lie about the location of the gold.

If he told them the truth, and they left to pursue it, what reason would they have to ever come back for him? Leaving him here, locked in this room, would kill him. He'd starve to death, eventually. It would be easier, in a lot of ways, for them to let him die and only come back for his body when they were sure it was done.

But, if he lied, they would surely come back, enraged. And that was exactly the move he needed to escape. He would have to be quick, to disarm and stun while the door was still open. And then… then, he'd be free.

He had to select a false place for the gold that was far enough away but still felt true to his captors, a place that could keep them occupied for a few days, perhaps a week, so he'd be ready. He shivered with fear and wrecked nerves and doubt. Could he _possibly_ be ready?

 _Accio bowl._

He held his breath, and the bowl quivered on the floor but stayed put. It was something, at least. More than he'd managed so far.

* * *

Lewis had pulled out her chair for her, bought her expensive wine, tried to walk her home, but she'd refused. She suspected she'd somehow offended him, but he still owled the next day to ask her out a second time.

He'd talked about Quidditch, yes, but he'd listened to her attempts at other topics of conversation, and she thought, on the whole, that he wasn't a bad person. A bit frighteningly quiet at times, a bit too enthusiastic at others. Maybe he had a tendency to be too dramatic, but she suspected the same thing of herself, honestly. And she had a neutral sort of feeling about seeing him again, which she figured was about as good as it could get, for now.

He was ambitious and a bit proud, but not egotistical, yet he had a rugged sort of traditional quality that made her feel like there could be a snag if he thought she was going to be like those silly girls who hung around the pitch after a match and giggled for autographs, hoping to be taken home by a muscular Quidditch player. But surely he knew that wasn't her. She'd never given off that impression to him. Not at all.

She avoided discussing him with Harry and Ginny, trying to sort out her own thoughts before mingling with theirs. But this left her swirling in a repetitive cycle, finally deciding that having an okay time with Lewis was good enough. Maybe she could pick a quiet spot for their next date, someplace without the frills of the restaurant they'd gone to the first time. She'd feel more at home, relax a bit, ease into casual conversation without worrying that she wasn't fitting in.

Maybe this would be good for her, she hoped. Maybe Ginny had been right.

* * *

She'd seen Lewis again on Tuesday, Friday… and now it was Saturday once more, and they were walking hand in hand to his flat. Two glasses of wine at dinner, two shots of firewhisky at the pub, and he was either actually quite interested in her or had been doing a decent job so far of faking it to get her back to his flat. Either way, she wasn't going to think about it anymore.

He made a comment about Apparating drunk after Quidditch a few weeks before, and she hit him harder than she'd meant to, legitimately scandalised at his carelessness. He laughed at her, and she wanted to scold him, but they'd arrived at his flat, stumbling through the door, and the moment was forgotten.

He kissed her, and somewhere in the midst of it, she had lost her shirt. Fragments of time were vanishing as he led her to his room, and she walled off the part of her mind that constantly played her memories on loop, locking the door and looking away. Far away.

His bed was warm, and so were his hands, and she focused on the emotionless feeling of simply being close to another person, closing her eyes.

* * *

She felt so guilty she thought she might throw up.

She'd fallen asleep at Lewis' flat. She'd left immediately, when she'd woken again at four o'clock in the morning and felt the heat of his half-naked body behind her. She'd never spent the night with anyone, never slept in the same bed with another person, except- except-

She rushed to her own room, dropped her handbag and wand, toed off her shoes, and fell down across her bed, not bothering to unmake it. The night was cool, but not cold, and she closed her eyes, exposed above the sheets.

She needed him. Ron. Oh, God, she needed him more than ever. And there was nothing-

An unwelcome thought occurred to her, and she roughly sniffed back tears, sitting up quickly and reaching for her wand on her bedside table. Panic filled her for a second, and she couldn't properly drown in a happy memory to produce the spell. But it couldn't have changed, _could it_?!

She steadied her breathing and closed her eyes, desperately recalling their first kiss, the way she'd felt when he'd kissed her back. And when she opened her eyes again-

"Expecto Patronum."

A familiar little otter formed in midair, a coil of silvery light tethering him to her wand, and she sighed with relief, smiling as her eyes filled with tears.

"Hi," she croaked, mesmerised.

Her Patronus was the same as it had always been, and she was even more comforted by the sight of it than she had expected. Irrational thoughts swirled in her mind, and she wondered if it was possible…

"You remember Ron Weasley?" she asked, shakily. Her otter spun in the air, and she smiled wider. It was a part of her, wasn't it? Of course it would know him.

What if he could still hear her, somehow?

She hated her own thoughts. She hated how she'd lose sight of reality so easily, begging for something more. Anything. Some connection to him. But he was dead. She knew it, and yet…

Her Patronus was perhaps the closest thing she had left. It had taken its form for her, so many years ago now, because of him.

"Could you find him?" she asked, shaking. "If it's possible…. I don't know. He's g-gone, I know that."

She laughed in a dazed sort of way, lying back down on her bed and suddenly feeling quite foolish, having a conversation with her Patronus in the middle of the night, in the dark. But it didn't stop the tidal wave of memories that washed over her, the ones she'd walled off and protected. They were back now, a pounding storm.

If she'd known that that final day had really been their last… God, what would she have done differently? If she could only have told him, one last time… And perhaps it was what she _had_ to do now, words spoken aloud more for herself than anything else, a reassurance that he could somehow even know how she felt in death… even now… that nothing would change, no matter where her life went from here. She knew that. She knew it more confidently than she'd ever known anything.

"I'll always love you," she whispered, as her silvery little otter twisted around in mid-air. He paused, turned his face toward her, and vanished… just as she closed her eyes.

* * *

The bowl had soared across the room to his open hands, and he'd cried when he'd done it.

Finally, exhausted, he'd set the bowl on the floor again and lied down on his stone slab to sleep, lost in darkness and half-remembered dreams.

In the distant void, she said so many things to him, often so quietly he'd only remember the way it had _felt_ , when he woke. Tonight, her whisper was clearer than it had been in so, so long. His subconscious mind wanted to drown in it, be carried away and disappear.

Tonight, she was _right here_. And his eyes twitched behind closed lids, reacting unconsciously to the new, silvery light that seemed to travel with her voice.

 _I'll always love you._

* * *

Maybe it had just been saying the words out loud, as if Ron could hear her, could know that no matter what happened now, her heart was still his. Maybe it was the planning for Harry and Ginny's wedding, mixed with work, keeping her distracted. But there were days she didn't cry, days she hardly thought of anything but the present moment.

She was standing in front of her mirror, twisting her hair into a messy bun at the base of her neck, when Lewis walked up behind her. They were going to a press event for his Quidditch team, and though she'd rather stay home reading, she'd agreed to go and was determined to make the most of it.

"Can't you dress up a bit?" Lewis asked, inspecting her attire. Surprised, she turned to face him directly, eyebrows lifted.

"I am…"

His gaze drifted sceptically to her hair, down to the modest neckline of her simple dress.

"I should buy you something, next time," he suggested, expression changing quickly to a smirk.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" she demanded, but it seemed he had dropped the subject, shrugging, and she wasn't in the mood to start a fight.

Or maybe she was. Just not with h-

"Let's go or we'll be late," and he held out his arm.

* * *

"What were you doing out with Harry?"

The question was so abrupt, that she nearly pulled a muscle in her neck to look sharply up from her book to where Lewis was standing in the doorway to his kitchen, arms crossed defensively. She'd been coming by on the weekends, and he'd cook dinner or bring in takeaway while she worked.

Tonight, she'd barely spoken to him, and maybe that was her fault in a way, but he could be incredibly rude and demanding, sometimes.

"What?" she said back, sitting up on the edge of the sofa. "I was helping with the wedding. How did you-"

"My mate saw you," he interrupted, clearing his throat. "He said there was someone else there, too-"

"George," she cut over him, eyes narrowed.

"Who-"

"Ginny's brother!" she shouted, but Lewis didn't flinch.

"You shouldn't be out alone like that with blokes."

Shoving her book off her lap, she stood furiously to face him directly.

"Why? They're my friends!"

"People get the wrong idea about you." His voice was level, but she could see the conflict in his eyes. Maybe he didn't want to be an arse to her, but-

"That's their problem!" she shouted back.

"I could have come with you."

She blinked at him, thrown off guard again.

"You're not involved in the wedding, Lewis," she said, attempting to maintain a steady tone of voice this time.

"I'm your boyfriend, maybe I should be."

There were so many things she could roar back that she wasn't even sure where to begin. And so, the easiest choice was to simply ignore it and back down, something she'd never felt like doing before when-

"I'm not talking about this anymore."

* * *

"I think I'll have it by the next time," Ron said slowly, words scratching through his raw throat. "I've got a clear picture, just need the address. I think she's remembering…"

They'd brought Evelyn by several times, close together, and he was sure she was on her summer holiday. He had to do it this week or… He didn't know what would happen, couldn't take another beating. This was his best chance.

He was far from ready, but he couldn't focus on that now.

Instead, he watched the twisted smile form across Ian's face as he looked from Graham to Mathilda. He was pleasing them, now. They'd leave him in peace.

* * *

 **7 Years, 2 Months, 19 Days  
** **Sunday, 31 July 2005**

Something had happened, and there had never been a next time. They'd left Ron a giant barrel of water and a massive crate of tinned food… and vanished. It had been about three weeks, he guessed, judging by his sleep and hunger and a general feeling of the passage of time.

When they'd gone, they'd been panicked. He didn't dare hope it could mean someone was figuring it out, somehow getting close to finding him here, to finding out what they had done to him. He didn't dare hope, and yet…

He'd been carefully rationing his food, and somehow the steady consumption of a consistent amount of sustenance had strengthened him considerably, even though it was never quite enough to cover the pit of hunger that sat hollow in his stomach. And he'd gotten so good at Accio that he could almost distractedly magic over his water cup, a tin of specifically selected food from his crate…

Now, he only had the hardest part left…

"Stupefy," he said softly, considering his options. It had worked once before, in desperation, but he had no confidence he could do it again. And he'd come to the uncomfortable conclusion that he'd have to try it on himself. Bloody hell.

As afraid as he was to sleep and miss his captors coming back for him, he was far more shaken by the idea of being completely unconscious and unable to move. But there was really no helping it, if he wanted to be sure. And he would only get one shot to escape. He _had_ to be sure.

* * *

It was a beautiful summer day, and the Burrow's garden and orchard were bright and cheerful, colourful streamers flowing between the branches of lovely green trees and neatly trimmed hedges. A white tent sat familiarly at the back, reminding her of Bill and Fleur's wedding and dancing for hours…

Everything here reminded her of him, but, rather than try to escape it - what she knew she could never do, surrounded by this place - she let herself be consumed. She hadn't cried yet, but she'd come dangerously close at the vows.

"You look nice today," Lewis had said, just before the ceremony had begun, and he'd glanced down her sunflower yellow, layered dress that fell just above her knees. She'd thanked him and smiled, though she'd already made up her mind. Just after he'd been rude to her, too shallow and obsessed with fame, he'd say something that might have sounded genuine to her before, when she'd met him that day after the Harpies game, and he'd seemed sincere.

He wasn't a bad person. She still believed that. Only he had some things to work on, things that she was not the right person to help him with. Maybe someone else would be, someday. But she had her own mess, her own long list of traits she wasn't proud of. She had to talk to him soon.

The wedding had been so perfectly Harry and Ginny, really. And the reception was in full swing, complete with an impromptu game of orchard Quidditch, which had made Mrs Weasley quite stern for a bit, not amused by Ginny's lack of respect for her wedding dress, which was surely going to be filthy afterward.

Hermione had merely smiled and slowly made her way outside, relieved to have not been noticed. The night air was actually quite refreshing, even after the hot summer day, and stars were popping up through velvety black, shining down on her.

She hadn't spotted him at first, but then, as she walked round the edge of the tent, her gaze had fallen on Harry's shadowy figure, sitting on a blanket, on the ground, in the dark, outside the ring of lights that danced through the garden. She approached him quietly, not wanting to disturb him, but curious. It was his day. He should be inside celebrating, but his hunched figure told a different story that made her chest clench with empathy.

"You can come over here, Hermione," he said through an obviously amused smile, even though she couldn't see his face.

"How'd you know it was me?"

She stepped through carefully trimmed grass and sat beside him, noting the half-full glass of something alcoholic in his hand.

"Honestly?" he said, turning to glance sideways at her. "That damn perfume."

Her next breath caught in her throat, but she let it back out as a shrill chuckle.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Ever since he gave it to you, you've sorta smelled like it at nice events. Bill and Fleur's wedding, at the pub when it's somebody's birthday, a few times in the bloody tent, even. Doubt I would have noticed something like that except… Well, unusual was a good word to describe it."

He grinned tiredly at her, eyes a bit red-rimmed, and she knew just then that he had been crying. She scooted a tiny bit closer, sniffing to avoid her own tears.

But as she waited in silence, unsure what to say, his expression fell apologetic, swirling the contents of his glass around as he sighed.

"Sorry," he croaked. "Didn't mean to drag you down with me."

"It's alright, Harry. I can talk about him. Been thinking about him all day, anyway…"

"Aren't you always?" he asked softly, smiling gently before taking a sip of his drink.

She didn't need to answer him, and she closed her eyes for a second before reaching for Harry's glass. He gladly let her take it, and she took a long drink, clearing her burning throat as she handed it back.

"It's so fucking unfair," he said roughly, words slurred just the tiniest bit together. "He should have been here."

"I know," she agreed, voice breaking.

"We survived the bloody war! Everything was supposed to be okay."

She linked her arm with his and lowered her head to his shoulder, unable to speak. After a moment, Harry's breathing slowed, and she felt his intake of breath before he spoke again.

"He loved you so much."

A smile broke across her face as she opened her eyes, allowing the tears to finally surface and slide down her cheeks.

"You know when I really saw it?" Harry continued quietly. "I mean, I knew you fancied each other for a while, and it was fairly obvious after he came back to us, but... It was that night, at the Burrow, when we found him in the kitchen, crying over Fred, after George had left to stay with Bill."

"I remember," she whispered, staring out into the peaceful night, a soft breeze brushing through the overgrown grass of the fields beyond.

 _There was a loud clatter, like a plate or a cup falling to the floor, and she bounded down the last set of stairs to the kitchen, just as Harry rushed in from the sitting room. It was late and dark, and everyone else had gone to bed, but Ron was sitting on the floor, shaking, hand still resting on the table as if he'd literally slumped out of his chair._

" _I'm sssorrry…" he shivered._

" _Ron…" Harry took ahold of his arm as Hermione knelt in front of him, her own eyes welling with tears._

" _Please, don't be sorry," she said, and his beautiful blue gaze met hers as she whispered... "I love you."_

 _Harry's eyes darted over to her, but she didn't care. It wasn't a secret… no longer one she felt the slightest bit like keeping, anyway. It had only been Ron finding out, their admissions to each other first, that had released her._

" _Love y-you… so much," he managed through a hiccup, reaching out to cup her neck in his shaking left hand, allowing his right hand to slide fully off the table._

 _Harry sat hesitantly next to him, and Ron turned to glance at him, attempting a weak smile._

" _I just couldn't st-stop it," he said, sniffing noisily. "George just left. We were in here t-talking, before he went, and once I started thinking of Fred, I…"_

 _Hermione picked up his right hand from the floor and linked their fingers together, drawing his attention for a moment as he sought her eyes again and lifted their joined hands to his mouth, kissing her knuckles._

 _Harry cleared his throat._

" _Want me to go-"_

" _Stay right there, Harry," Hermione instructed._

" _Yeah, mate," Ron said, sniffing again as he let go of Hermione's neck and reached for Harry's arm. "Need you both."_

" _Just save the kissing for Hermione," Harry warned, settling in his spot with a small smirk._

" _Planning on it," Ron grinned back, face still coated in tears, but they were no longer falling._

" _What do you need?" Hermione asked him, but he shook his head and squeezed her hand._

" _Just you."_

 _He slid his hand up from her fingers to her wrist to her forearm, gently tugging her closer as he lifted his other arm around Harry's shoulders, and they held each other for quite a long time, hardly moving, his face in her hair and her cheek on his collarbone and Harry's head resting on his opposite shoulder._

" _S'bloody unfair I've got the best mate in the world and- and the best girlfriend, too," he said after a while, and she felt him smile through her curls._

" _Girlfriend," she whispered back, allowing her lips to brush his neck as she spoke. She felt him shiver for a different reason, this time, and he clutched her tighter. "It_ is _fair," she added as she lifted her head to meet his slightly bloodshot eyes, faces so close together as Harry watched them._

" _Hm?"_

" _You're amazing."_

 _He laughed dismissively, but his eyes were suddenly shimmering with something like shy gratification._

" _Right. And what've I done that's so great? Don't answer that."_

" _I couldn't, anyway," she whispered, closing most of the remaining gap between their mouths. "We'd be here all night."_

 _The tips of his fingers trailed up and down her back as she kissed him, and Harry finally cleared his throat lightly._

" _I'm right here, you know," he teased, lifting his head from Ron's shoulder._

 _They separated enough for Ron to speak._

" _Aren't you used to this by now?"_

" _Unless I'm mistaken, you only snogged for the first time a week ago."_

" _But I've been doing it with my eyes for a few years, already," Ron grinned, and Harry laughed, rolling his own eyes as Hermione blushed and pressed her lips together._

 _She didn't want to go back to Ginny's room to sleep, as she had been doing since that first night. But they'd agreed that she should - she wouldn't have to worry about getting caught, and they'd really be properly together in a couple of days now, anyway._

 _But the thought of parting ways and lying awake in a camp bed for hours wasn't what she wanted. And she knew he wouldn't refuse. He wanted her with him as much as she did._

 _But then, all of a sudden, Harry suggested the perfect solution she hadn't considered._

" _Should we camp down here in the sitting room?"_

" _Brilliant. Hermione?"_

" _I'll just change my clothes and bring down some blankets," she smiled, relieved._

 _She rushed upstairs, changed into a pair of pyjama trousers and a vest, gathered three blankets and pillows in her arms, and hurried back down to rejoin Harry and Ron where they were sitting on the rug in front of the unlit fireplace. Once she'd dropped their bedding next to them, Ron reached up to take her hand, tugging her down so she was partially sitting in his lap, and he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, nuzzling his face against the side of her neck through her hair._

" _Quidditch in the orchard tomorrow, Ron?" Harry yawned. "Ginny says Charlie'll play us doubles."_

" _Can I get you back on a broom with me?" Ron muttered in the vague direction of Hermione's ear, through her curls, and her cheeks flushed noticeably at the feeling of his hot breath on her skin._

" _I'll consider it," she said rather breathlessly._

" _Really?"_

" _Yes, but maybe not during a game. You four get a bit rough."_

" _Don't trust me?" he pouted. "I wouldn't let you fall."_

" _Ginny'll think it's cheating if you both play on Ron's broom, anyway," Harry said, chuckling._

" _Why? We'll be rubbish if we do that. It's like having half a person on a team-" Hermione pinched his forearm, hard. "Oi!"_

" _Because I'll distract you or because I'm particularly horrible at Quidditch?"_

 _He winced, clearly unable to choose between two equally true responses. She knew Quidditch was at the absolute bottom of her list of skills, not to mention dead last on her list of aspirations, but she was having too much fun teasing him now. She huffed and feigned offense, but her lips twitched as Harry laughed, removing his glasses and setting them on the coffee table, which they had already pushed back against the sofa._

" _I could count on one hand the things you can't do perfectly," Ron said through a yawn. "Gotta leave something for the rest of us."_

 _She turned her head further toward him and lightly bit his jaw, only realising exactly what she'd done when his eyes glazed over, and she felt her pulse accelerate. She swallowed, thankful for Harry's distraction with spreading out his blanket behind them. Ron let go of her waist and raised his eyebrows, slowly grinning as a light blush coloured the tips of his ears. As they often did, they spoke without words, and she had found that particular connection to be astonishingly sharp, even more so recently._

 _She held up two fingers to indicate the number of days they had left before their hotel plans, and his grin widened… just before he leaned forward and bit the end of her finger in retaliation. She gasped and snatched her hand back, biting her lip to keep from laughing and steadying herself by pressing her other hand against his shoulder to climb off his lap._

 _Her stomach was fluttering pleasurably as they shifted around to lie on the rug, Ron in the middle. And he immediately cuddled up to her left side, under a thin blanket, lying on his back. She turned toward him, sliding her head off her pillow to rest on his chest instead. And he snaked his arm underneath her to hold her closer._

 _On Ron's opposite side, Harry flicked his wand, extinguishing the dim lantern light so they were fully hidden in darkness. And she could feel Ron's strong heartbeat against her cheek as she closed her eyes._

" _Thank you," she heard him mutter, but she missed Harry's mumbled reply, sighing deeply instead as she tugged Ron's blanket up a bit higher so she could run her fingers under his shirt to touch the bare skin of his stomach without anyone seeing. His muscles tensed for a moment, and she thought she must have tickled him. She smiled, flattening her palm to his skin, and he reached over to cover her hand with his own as their breathing slowed._

Harry reached up under his glasses to rub his watery eyes, and Hermione lifted her head from his shoulder to wipe her own cheeks with the back of her hand.

"People always say that rubbish about how the person you lost would want you to be happy…" Harry sniffed, meeting her eyes for a moment, attempting a bitter smile.

"But I don't think we can even _be_ the same people we were before," she said, softly. "The person I really am will never get over it. I have to be someone else now. And I think that's true for you, too. I'm not sure I really understood that until today."

Harry nodded, clearly lost in contemplation for a moment, before he spoke again.

"Where's Lewis?"

"Oh, God, Harry," she sighed. "I- I think I have to split up with him."

He seemed less surprised than she'd imagined he might be.

"Oh," was all he managed to say, taking another sip of his drink.

"He wants something I can't give him," she explained, halfway figuring it out aloud. "It's just… just these little things, like asking me to wear makeup to a party, making sure he knows where I've been every night. I can't do it."

"Yeah." Harry cleared his throat. "That doesn't sound like you."

"He can be nice, really. But…"

"Yeah," Harry said again, nodding at her silence.

"But that's not important today, anyway," she smiled. "You're _married_ now."

"I know," he grinned back. "Didn't want anyone to see me like this and... you know, get the wrong idea."

"Should we go back in now?"

"Just give me a minute," he requested, but she was no longer worried, reassured by his smile.

"Okay," she agreed, squeezing his arm before she tucked her feet up and stood, smoothing down the flowing fabric of her skirts before heading back to the tent.

* * *

She walked to the dance floor, alone. The music was wafting soothingly through the air, a quiet, simple song she'd heard once or twice before. She didn't know the words, but the tune was easy to recognise. The scattered guests who remained on the floor around her seemed too preoccupied with their partners or jovial conversations to pay any attention to her at all, and she sipped her fresh drink, licking her lips.

Her eyes drifted tipsily shut, and she swayed to the music, thinking how wonderfully peaceful it could be to just exist, to be right here, alone. Sometimes, in the middle of all the noise, she found the places she could hide the best, out in the open and surrounded. Sometimes, it was buried under blankets in her cold bed. Sometimes, it was deep in the pages of a book. But, tonight, it was right here.

* * *

 _Expecto Patronum._

He didn't know why he'd thought it might work. It was ridiculous. But his eyes still burned from struggling effort. He'd been at this for two days, when he really should be focusing on aggressive magic, learning to steal a wand, bind someone's body with ropes, knock them unconscious. But it had occurred to him - so suddenly that he'd started awake from half-sleep - that he had a way to communicate with her, with Harry, with anyone… could he get his Patronus to appear.

It wasn't that he had trouble calling up happy memories. He'd been doing that for months, drowning in them. No, it was the nature of the spell, the difficulty and precision required. It was bloody complicated, well beyond stunning and binding and disarming, and he was frustrated beyond reason from even having attempted it.

It was doing his head in, now seeing a clear way to send a message but failing so miserably to produce it. But this would never work if he couldn't fight. His captors could be back, any day, and he'd have to give them an answer… a location for the bloody gold, and then what? A week, maybe two if he was lucky. And that would be it.

Fuck, he was close. So close now. He had to cling to that, to a terrifying timeline that could lead him home. And he had to stop sprinting down this new road. He could wear himself out to send a message, but what could he even say?

 _I'm alive, please find me. I'm alive, please don't forget me._

He had absolutely no idea where he was. He had to get outside to find out. And, with a wand, he could Apparate. With a wand… he was free.

"Accio cup."

His water flew across the room to his hand, sloshing a bit as he caught it. He swirled it around, took a long drink, set it back down on the floor, and stood, staring at the opposite wall.

"Stupefy."

He held his breath, waiting to fall. But he remained standing, conscious.

This was all there should be in his life, right now. Everything else was a distraction. Get this one thing right, and he had hope.

He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and tried again.


	8. 7 Years, 2 Months, 25 Days

_**A/N:** A part of me knows that I reeeeally shouldn't post this right now, because I don't know when I'll be able to post the next one. But the rest of me is too impatient and also really hoping I can finish this fic by Christmas for... reasons._

 _Okay, so. I hope you enjoy this one! Thank you again (and again) for reading along and for all the lovely reviews you've left me and just... yeah. Hope everyone has a great rest of your week! x_

* * *

 **CHAPTER EIGHT:  
** **7 Years, 2 Months, 25 Days  
** **Saturday, 6 August, 2005**

Harry had just returned from his honeymoon with Ginny the previous night, and she'd left early that morning for Quidditch practice, so he was now sitting with Hermione, waiting for their breakfast at the cafe on the corner by his flat. It had just begun to drizzle outside, though the sun was still cutting through the clouds. Hermione laughed to herself as she thought back to Wednesday night, and Harry glanced up from his Daily Prophet.

"What?"

"Lewis broke up with me." She took a long sip of her slightly burnt black coffee as Harry raised his eyebrows high over the rims of his glasses.

"What? I thought you were going to break up with _him_."

She puffed an ironic laugh through her nose and shook her head.

"So did I, but he got there first."

They were briefly interrupted by a plate of eggs and bacon and a second, much smaller one of fruit and toast as their waitress returned.

"Cheers," Harry said, setting down his Prophet and reaching for his fork to tuck in.

"Need anything else?" the waitress asked.

"No, thank you," Hermione smiled, and the waitress walked away again.

"What did he say?" Harry inquired immediately, a large bite of eggs already on the way to his mouth.

"I'm too independent for him," Hermione said, mouth twitching as she held back a grin.

"Ha!" Harry laughed, quickly chewing his food. "And he's mates with Ginny?"

"I know! That's what I said!" She reached for her toast and took a small bite out of one corner.

"Well," Harry swallowed, picking up his juice glass, "glad it's over?"

"Honestly, I already figured he felt that way, and we weren't good for each other. I don't think either of us really knew each other long enough to feel especially broken up about it." She took another sip of coffee and paused, considering. "Though… I might stick to our Muggle pub for a bit and avoid the Leaky. You know he told me one of his mates spotted us there when we were wedding planning, and he basically spied on us to report to Lewis."

"What?" Harry grimaced, disgusted. "That's… creepy."

"Yeah."

"Muggle pub it is. I really like it there, anyway. It's easier to be left alone when the whole bloody place doesn't know you."

* * *

It had stopped raining by the time they had finished breakfast, so she walked the two kilometres home on her own, thinking of the book she'd bought on Thursday that she was going to finally start reading today. She'd been considering, all week, how she'd come to a realisation about herself at the wedding. Everyone seemed to strive for someone to spend their life with, a partner and companion. But that wasn't her. Not right now. Maybe it never would be, and what was the point in forcing it?

She'd already had it, anyway.

She shook her head, as if she could physically free herself from her own depressing and pessimistic thoughts. This was only _now_. Who knew what her future would be?

She _had_ known, once.

Frustrated by the cycle of her own mind, she sighed heavily and turned the corner at the next block, forcing herself to think about her book again. Four hundred pages of new material, resting on her bedside table. She could take notes for days...

She suddenly veered off course, realising she could use a new quill. Diagon Alley would be crowded on a Saturday, this close to the start of a new year at Hogwarts. And, for a while, she could get lost in the crowds.

* * *

 **7 Years, 3 Months, 20 Days  
** **Thursday, 1 September, 2005**

Ron was sitting on the edge of his stone bed, stretching sore muscles, when he heard it. It was usually difficult to make out through the steel door, but, today, they were shouting. It had been so long since he'd seen another person that he'd begun to fear they were never coming back.

But the door burst open, and Bern rushed in, silently levitating a small bag of food and fresh water for Ron. By the looks of this, they expected to be leaving again straightaway, and Ron wasn't sure if he felt more relieved or panicked by this, knowing he had more time to practice but dreading the weeks or even months he might remain trapped here.

His thoughts suddenly turned frantic.

For a fleeting moment, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the open door. Bern was busy shifting things around the room, distracted.

Shit, he could run for it. But then, he saw them. Charlie and Graham were waiting outside, and they moved slightly forward until they stood just barely visible around the half-open door.

"What reason could he've had to give _real_ names?" Charlie asked, angrily.

"I dunno. But Isaac will cut him apart if he gets his hands on him."

"Fucking Archie. He knew the plan, the tosser. They must've broken him, in Azkaban."

Bern turned to glance at Ron, and the other two moved further forward to peek through the open door.

"Bern, let's go!" Charlie shouted, and Bern nodded before turning away, slipping outside, and slamming the door echoing shut behind him.

As silence settled around him again, Ron dropped his head to his hands, groaning. He could have done it with his fucking fists. He could have bolted out, catching them off guard. It might have really worked.

 _Coward, coward, coward._

He repeated the word too many times inside his own head. But he had to get a grip.

One shot.

He had one bloody shot to escape. Make a mistake, let something slide, let them get even a hint of what he was planning, and it was done. They'd kill him, or close… take him someplace else, change the rules. Best scenario he'd be back at the beginning with nothing, with a rundown clock on telling them what they were so sodding desperate to hear. Worst case he'd have minutes left to live, to say goodbye. Because he'd never done that, had he. He'd have to say it to himself. He'd never see them again.

His eyes burned and his head was throbbing, and they had left him here indefinitely.

His mind wandered back to the door. If he could figure out how to unlock the bloody thing…

No.

Impatience. Frustration. Doubt.

Those were what made him weak.

Focus. He had to focus. As tired as he was, as much as his body ached from sleeping on solid stone, as much as he begged to see her again, one more time. Focus.

* * *

Okay, so she'd been drinking, a lot. But it wasn't as if she was harming anyone… aside from maybe herself, but that wasn't the point.

Harry and Ginny had been busier than usual with work and training lately, and she'd found herself often hiding in a dark corner of the Muggle pub, getting too sloshed and staggering somewhat dangerously alone down an alleyway at one o'clock in the morning to use the floo at the Leaky, to get herself back home. Maybe it was unhealthy, maybe she wasn't thinking of all the reasons why she should probably stop. But, for the moment, she was content with minor self-destruction…

* * *

 **7 Years, 5 Months, 1 Day  
** **Thursday, 13 October, 2005**

It was gnawing at him, every day. There was a deep, terrible fear he couldn't shake, no matter what he did.

They might have left him here to die, this time.

The last time they'd been here, what he'd overheard about names… it sounded like they were being actively tracked down by someone, and if they'd been caught…

"Incarcerous."

He forcefully used his training as a distraction. He still had four tins of food left. Fuck, they hadn't left him much, this time. He could comfortably live off it for a couple more weeks, uncomfortably for maybe a month.

One month.

He tensed his back muscles as a shiver ran through him. It was getting quite cold in here, but he ignored it.

 _Incarcerous._

Startlingly, a strand of rope appeared from thin air and coiled itself around his legs. It wasn't very tight, but he wasn't feeling picky, grinning beneath his knotted beard at his success.

Now came the part where he had to vanish it to leave no evidence. He bent and worked the rope free, shifting it over his filthy shoes and gathering it in his hands.

"Evanesco."

There was a bang outside, and his door began to clang open. Eyes wide, he sprinted for his barrel, shoving the rope down under the surface of the last few inches of water at the bottom, just as Matilda walked through the door with Ian and Isaac behind her, the latter holding tight to Evelyn's arm.

"Thought you were shot of us?" Mathilda spat, snarling. She was in a particularly foul mood, this time. "You'll have the location for us today, yes?"

He knew she didn't expect him to answer, didn't need him to. He'd have it today, or… The threat was always hanging quite clearly, and he was following his own plans now. He _would_ have it today.

Isaac shoved Evelyn toward him, and Ron dropped to his knees, familiar with the routine, finding it unnecessary to be forced. But Mathilda held his hair in a tight, gloved fist anyway, following procedure.

"Where is it?" she asked, unnecessarily. But he had to make her wait long enough to believe he'd only just discovered it, reading Evelyn's mind.

Truthfully, he'd settled on the location after much consideration. He'd needed it to be far enough way that it would keep them occupied for a while, which, for wizards who could Apparate, had to be another country, where it would be very dangerous to go without a Portkey… or some other, much slower method of transportation. And, as he had no bloody idea where he was being held, he had to simply hope that he was still within England or Scotland, and that Evelyn's shaky memory of her grandmother's old house in France - a memory he'd found while searching her mind, months ago - would be enough to make them believe it.

"It's an old house," he started slowly, "in… I think it's in the south of France. Yeah."

Mathilda's nails dug painfully into his scalp.

"Marseille," he added, staring at Evelyn, "where her grandmother lived. There's a cellar."

"Isaac! That house burned down just before we lost track of Alcott! No one's lived there since."

"It's there," Ron continued in a raspy voice, "inside a dusty trunk with two letters on the front… AW."

"His initials! That's it, Isaac. Let's go!"

She released Ron with a rough shove forward, taking Evelyn's arm and leading the four of them out of the room. The door echoed shut, dropping Ron back to silent darkness again.

* * *

 **7 Years, 5 Months, 19 Days  
** **Monday, 31 October, 2005**

A subconscious part of her was always searching for him, everywhere she went. It could be in a stranger's look, the timbre of someone's voice from far away… a dazed feeling when the clear sky was the exact right colour of blue. Another part of her was consciously avoiding her own memories, and she hadn't opened his trunk again since Duncan.

She was sitting at the large, round table they often selected when Harry and Ginny, and sometimes Luna or Neville, would join them at the pub. Tonight, a rare appearance from Seamus and Dean, and Harry was laughing at something, distracted, so she stood to make her way back to the bar, to buy herself another drink.

It was Halloween, so the bar was awfully crowded, and she made two ignored attempts to order a cocktail.

"Want something, love?"

A tall bloke with dark hair acknowledged her with a smirk, eyes flashing down to the neckline of her blouse. His height made it easy for him to reach over everyone else, and he was holding a full pint of beer.

"No, I'm fine," Hermione said curtly, squeezing between two people to get closer to the bar.

"What's your name?" he asked her, ignoring her attempts to end communication. She sighed and turned to stare at him.

"Not tonight, alright?" she said a bit weakly.

"I'm only bein' friendly."

"But I-"

Her heart stopped, unable to finish speaking. At the other end of the bar, a man stood even taller, above everyone around him, his tousled head of ginger hair and pale neck making her feet go numb.

"You alright, sweetheart?" she heard the bloke in front of her asking, but her ears were ringing, and his voice came to her as if through a long, echoing tunnel.

The ginger bloke turned round, and she felt her eyes prickle with angry tears. It wasn't him, of _course_.

She couldn't breathe.

Shoving her way back through the crowds, she rushed to the loo, flinging open the door and locking herself in the first open stall. This had happened before - a panic attack, they had called it, at St Mungo's - but it had been years, and the last one had been for no discernible reason.

She clutched at her chest, vision blurry, pacing the two steps back and forth across the stall. The door outside banged open, and two giggling girls walked through. Dizzy, she finally stopped moving and rested her forehead against the inside of the stall door, closing her eyes, breathing sharply through her mouth.

She didn't notice the tears coating her face until much later, when the loo had fallen silent again, the only sounds now coming from the muffled music outside. And she could feel every beat of her own heart, too aware.

She was so, so alone.

She'd wanted it this way, she reminded herself. Two failed relationships were stale in her recent past. She wasn't cut out to be someone's girlfriend. Maybe she was selfish. Maybe she wasn't willing to change. _Maybe no one would ever be him._

But did she have to be _lonely_? She shivered in the cold loo and recalled the bloke at the bar who was probably looking to take someone home for the night and never phone them again. She needed warmth, someone's hands - did it matter whose?

When she emerged from the loo again, sometime later, not bothering to look at her reflection in the mirror, she headed straight back to the bar, somewhat surprised to find him still there. He was laughing with another bloke before he turned his attention to his almost empty drink, swigging the rest down in one.

She touched his arm, and he looked down at her, raising an eyebrow.

"Still want to buy me that drink?" she asked.

* * *

She turned away from the naked back in bed beside her, sliding her bare legs out from the sheets to dangle over the side of the mattress, trying to make as little noise as possible as she stood and picked up her clothes, relieved to hear the soft sounds of snoring even as she disappeared out to the hall, further down to find his loo.

A very buried part of her felt bloody ashamed for what she had done, and maybe it would hit her harder later, but… Right now, she was tired, still quite drunk, and something in his flat smelled nice - a Muggle cologne, she figured, spotting a bottle on the sink. Which brought her back to the fact that he was a Muggle, of course, and something about that alone made it safe. She wasn't going to tell him she was a witch, which meant he wouldn't know her.

She dressed clumsily, still avoiding her own reflection, and she briefly wondered what Ginny or Harry might say about what she had done, wincing when she realised she hadn't even said goodbye to her friends at the pub. But, she felt too many things, when she was paying attention. Her heart beat too fast and her breathing came quick and uneven.

She had felt nothing, with Jack, this man who was still snoring lightly as she crept back out of his loo, and _nothing_ was exactly what she wanted to feel.

* * *

 **7 Years, 6 Months, 1 Day  
** **Sunday, 13 November, 2005**

He was pacing his room, cold sweat coating his back, fists clenched at his sides. It wasn't working.

If he'd put too much stock in this one spell, maybe it was making things worse. But when three or more of his captors arrived to strangle him, any day now, he had to somehow debilitate them all before they had a chance to respond, and the only way he was gonna do that was to bloody stun at least one of them, and it wasn't fucking working.

He punched the wall, ignoring the sizzle of pain that shot up his arm.

He shoved his hands into his hair, replaying the moment he'd done this very thing, desperate in the woods. He'd replayed it so very many times, like a looped, moving photograph. His eyes burned with furious tears, and he thought of the way she'd screamed his name when they'd dragged him out of her sight.

"FUCK!"

 _Stupefy. STUPEFY!_

The world went black.

* * *

 _There was a gentle knock on his bedroom door, and he squinted in the dark, not entirely sure he'd actually heard it._

 _But there it was again._

 _His old bed springs creaked as he climbed out, tousling his hair before he reached his door. Yawning, he opened it, pleased to see Hermione standing on the other side._

" _Hey," he grinned._

" _Remind me again why I'm sleeping in Ginny's room," she said in a tight, almost shrill voice._

" _Because-" but he faltered, eyes darting down her body, thinly covered by a sheer night dress, and nothing else, he was fairly sure._

 _She heaved a breath that might have been fueled by nerves, flushing cheeks to match, but he was speculating it could be much more than that, something like the way he'd seen her in the woods, a week ago…_

" _Come in here," he suggested, holding the door open as she slipped under his arm, and he shut it again before turning around to face her._

" _I can't stop thinking about you," she admitted, almost immediately._

 _He felt the hairs on his forearms stand on end as his skin broke out in gooseflesh, and she shifted her weight from foot to foot, sighing._

" _I know. You wanted it to be perfect," she said in a strangled whisper, not waiting for him to formulate a reply. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"_

" _Perfect for me is anywhere you are. Don't give a shit about anything else, but I just don't want it that way for you."_

" _Don't want what?" she asked in a tiny, shaky voice._

" _Y'know. Hiding up here and rushing, nervous about my family finding out. We'll be completely alone, tomorrow. We can take our time…"_

" _What if I don't care about that either?"_

" _I can't actually turn you down, so be bloody careful," he grinned, and she smiled shyly back._

" _We_ should _wait. It's just another day. I know you're right," she whispered._

" _Don't go_ that _far. Wouldn't want this to be the first thing I'm right about," he teased, but she shook her head, sighing._

" _I just miss you."_

 _A soft smile formed across his face as she blushed._

" _And I know that's ridiculous," she added, clearly a tad self-conscious. "I see you every day."_

 _He was about to tell her he didn't think it was ridiculous at all, that he felt the same way, but she crossed her arms over her chest and spoke again before he could form the words._

" _Could I just… just stay up here with you? I can wake up early and go back to Ginny's. I just want to be with you. And, anyway, aside from the night we spent downstairs, with Harry, I haven't been sleeping well-"_

" _What?" he interrupted, concerned. "You could've stayed up here, anyway. You should've told me-"_

" _No, it's fine," she cut him off, stepping closer. "And you haven't been sleeping well, either."_

" _How do you know?"_

 _She reached up and traced a fingertip lightly over the dark circles under his eyes. His focus wavered a bit at her gentle touch, and he was tempted to close his eyes, but then she had moved her hand away again._

" _So," she began, so tentative, "is it really alright if I-"_

" _Yeah," he smiled. "Please stay."_

 _They stared at each other for a long, silent moment, in the dark. It almost felt like a dream, her being there with him, with the light from a full moon outside glowing off her nearly transparent, white nightdress. He hadn't even known she owned a thing like that, but then it wasn't as if he'd ever seen her dressed for bed in the girls' dormitory, where she probably wouldn't be as concerned about modesty…_

 _He felt her cool hand slip into his much larger one, and he led her to his bed, patchwork blanket already tangled from where he'd been lying, attempting sleep, before she'd arrived. And he realised, as he moved to the inside of his mattress to give her room to climb in next to him, that he hadn't fully prepared himself for what it would be like to suddenly have her warm, half-naked body brushing against his side under his sheets. He'd never been this close to her with this little clothing between them. Scratch that, he'd never seen her in this little clothing, full stop._

 _He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose, feeling her eyes on him before her hand flattened to his chest. When he opened his eyes again, she was hovering over him, just barely biting a chapped bit of her bottom lip._

 _Sod it. He weaved his hand through her hair to find the back of her neck, and she lowered her face without hesitation, pressing her mouth to his. He suddenly wrinkled his nose and squirmed away from her. A thick strand of her hair had made its way into his mouth, and he laughed. Her eyes popped open, startled… but she smiled shyly as she realised what had happened. She hooked a finger around her wayward curl and shoved it back with the rest, over her shoulder. But it was a useless effort, and her hair curtained around them again, worse than before. She tutted with frustration, but he just sighed happily, smiling as he smoothed both hands along either side of her face to hold her hair back for her and try again._

 _It was quite possibly the best kiss of his life, which he reckoned was absurd, in a way, because he'd had the same thought every time she'd kissed him since the first time. And the only ones that counted, anyway, were the ones with her._

 _He was so completely overwhelmed by the soft feeling of her weight on top of him and the slinky fabric gliding over her skin that his hands were on her sides and brushing along the outer curves of her breasts before he fully realised what he was doing._

" _Sorry, sorry," he whispered, a bit strangled and rushed, as his hands retreated to her back._

" _Don't," she breathed, her hot exhale puffing against his parted lips. "Don't be sorry."_

 _He stared up at her shimmering, dark eyes, made moreso by her waterfall of hair blocking the only light from the window. When she inhaled again, her breasts squished to his chest, and he swallowed, tangling a few fingers in her hair. She leaned forward, slowly sliding her parted lips between his as he moaned deep in the back of his throat. No,_ this _was the best kiss of his life._

 _He grinned against her mouth at his own thoughts before he rolled them over so they were lying on their sides, facing each other, with her back to the wall. She bent her left leg up and slid it over his right, which made her nightdress ride up high on her thigh, and he reached tentatively down to run his fingers along the spot where skin met fabric. Gooseflesh broke out across her leg, under his hand, and she rubbed the tip of her nose against his, shivering._

" _Your skin's s-so warm," she trembled, and though he thought she felt rather warm herself, he was satisfied with whatever excuse she needed to get closer to him._

 _He rubbed his hand back and forth across her leg._

" _Take off your shirt?" she asked in a tiny voice._

" _Okay."_

 _He scrambled to sit up, reaching over his shoulder to tug his shirt forward, over his head, tousling his hair in the process. He dropped the shirt to the floor and returned his full attention to the girl he'd loved for years, who also happened to be wearing one single piece of fabric and lying on her back in his bed, staring up at him._

" _You're bloody gorgeous, you know."_

 _She very nearly rolled her eyes at him._

" _Stop it. You wouldn't be saying that if I wasn't…" she paused to swallow, "...almost naked in your bed, right now."_

 _Her voice around the word 'naked' made him lose quite a bit of concentration for a moment, but he quickly recovered enough to argue._

" _Not true. You could be wearing four jumpers and your school robes, and I'd still think that." Her lips wavered toward a shy smile. "Actually," he considered, "that's literally happened before."_

" _Come back down here," she requested, suddenly breathless._

 _He leaned over her and attached his lips to the side of her neck, and her hands roamed across his naked back. When she arched up to press her chest to his again, his mouth froze behind her ear for a second… resuming in a much more sloppy approximation of open-mouth kisses, until he reached her lips._

 _He reached down to feel her skin again, sucking her bottom lip between both of his. And he worked his hand further up her leg, under the hem of her nightdress, fingertips sinking into warm flesh he'd never, ever seen. She pulled him more firmly down on top of her, and he was suddenly between her bent legs, and she was shaking._

 _This was dangerously close to going a bit too far for him to stop. Truthfully, she didn't seem to mind, but he was still clinging to their plan to wait until tomorrow to do… well, to shag, which he couldn't believe he was this fucking close to actually doing with her._

 _He breathed through his nose as he separated from her to search her eyes… which very, very slowly cracked open, almost drunkenly. The corner of his mouth twitched up, amused by the thought of a drunk Hermione… But she halted his train of thought by pushing him over onto his back and propping up on her elbow, over him, staring down at him with such an affectionate gaze that he couldn't breathe again, for several stretched seconds._

 _She finally reached out to timidly brush his chest with her fingertips, feather-lightly moving across his skin and leaving gooseflesh in the wake of her touch. He waited until he couldn't possibly take it anymore before snatching her wrist and tugging her against him, trapping their hands between their chests and crushing her mouth to his. It was short and a little bit frantic, and by the time she tore her mouth away to pant against his swollen lips, her gaze had filled with such a potent longing that he was overwhelmed, all over again._

 _He couldn't leave it, just like this. Not yet._

 _He touched the tips of two, long fingers to her collarbone, and she gasped as he dragged his fingers achingly slowly down the centre of her chest, past her ribs._

" _Ron…" she pleaded gently, and he knew what she wanted. He had probably never been this brave before, even facing down dragons and Death Eaters and bloody spiders._

 _She pressed her body more firmly into his hand, and he extended his fingers up her chest… slowly… slowly, until his hand was covering her breast, and he was stunned speechless._

 _Not only had he never done anything like this before, but he'd never fantasised about it even close to accurately, either. Everything about her continued to be approximately an infinite amount better than he could have ever imagined. She was so bloody soft, so warm, and the loose fabric of her nightdress didn't come close to hiding the way her nipple hardened against his hand. As he moved his fingers experimentally, she made a new sound like a mousy, high-pitched exhale, and he felt it through the tiny prickling hairs on his forearms… straight down to his crotch._

" _Fuck... y-you feel bloody amazing," he groaned shakily, and she looked right down into his eyes, immediately breaking him._

 _She whimpered as she ducked to kiss his neck, and his hand was lost in soft flesh and thin fabric until her body was pressed too hard against him for him to tell what he was doing, anymore. He slid his hand across her ribs to her side, throat constricting with all the love he felt and an intense attempt at holding back._

" _If we don't stop now, I won't be able to," she mumbled against his neck, and he nodded vaguely._

 _Somehow, between her face nuzzling against his cheek and her legs tangling up with his, they had come to rest on their sides again, facing each other. He had a lot of things he wanted to say, but the words were all jumbled up and heavy. And he wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but her eyes seemed a bit glossier than they had moments ago._

" _Kiss me, one more time?" she whispered, and he tilted his head, answering her with his lips._

 _When they finally parted, she reached up to touch his cheek so softly, and he draped his arm around her waist, eyes locked on hers._

" _Sometimes it doesn't seem real," she said, nearly too quiet to make out, drifting the tips of her fingers across his jaw, "like we're still fighting and you haven't told me that you- that you love me." Her lips curled into a sweet smile, and he spread his hand across her back._

" _I hope we don't completely stop fighting, honestly," he teased, but some truth was there in his tone as well. "You prob'ly know I've always loved it. Reckon that's mad, but-"_

" _I meant the war," she grinned. "I'll never stop rowing with you."_

" _Oh." His grin matched hers as she stopped moving her fingertips along his jaw and laid her hand flat on his cheek, instead. "Good."_

 _Sleepy minutes passed, gentle movements of hands and fingers the only reminder that they were still awake. And, finally, somewhere between a drifting thought of wanting to spend every day of the rest of his life with her and a feeling of deep, perfect contentment, his eyes had slipped shut, her soft breath slowly warming the tip of his nose._

* * *

He cracked open his eyes, vision blurred for a moment before he blinked, and his steel room was swimming into focus, left side of his face pressed roughly to the stone floor where he had fallen.

Fallen.

Gasping, he bolted to sit up, palms pressed to the floor, eyes wide. And, quite suddenly, understanding struck him.

It had been _her_. He'd thought of her, how his mind had flashed back to that moment, at Malfoy Manor, as he'd been forced away from her. How he'd insisted to himself, after that, as irrational as it might have been, that he'd never let anyone take her away from him like that again. And there he had been, in those woods, watching it happen once more, unable to move, listening to her scream for him.

And he'd stunned someone, right then, without a wand, without words.

"Oh my God."

It had worked. Today, as it had back then, and he could feel it, flowing inside him, as if a current of electricity was still dying out from such intense magic. His captors had yet to return, and he'd done it. Months and months of training, more than a year of dreadful fear that he'd die here, alone. And, now…

He laughed through his tears, roughly sniffing and wiping his face with his wrist. He bent up his knees, resting his forearms over them as he let everything go and sobbed, shaking. And, just then, in that moment, the details faded away, and he was sure.

He was getting the fuck out of here. He was going home.


	9. 7 Years, 6 Months, 1 Day

_**A/N:** HOLY CRAP, this is a long one. The next will probably be crazy long, too. _

_So, there are three… hm, can I use the term "Easter Eggs" in my own fic? Ha. Anyway, there are three minuscule things I slipped in here, which I fully realize basically no one will get, so I figured I'd just tell you about them for fun. My buddies at DEM will appreciate Ron's outfit at the end of the chapter, which I am of course blaming on Rupert Grint in episode 5 of Sick Note… The other two references are ridiculous. I've named Hermione's office secretary after Dawn from The Office (BBC), one of my all time favorite shows, even though the character in this fic is nothing at all like the "real" Dawn. And then I've made an even smaller reference by naming a briefly mentioned character "Frankie," which is taken from the fabulous X-Files episode "The Rain King," in which an actress named Frankie Ingrassia plays a southern-drawled, gum-chewing receptionist whose lines I probably have memorized… :D_

 _RIGHT. Onward!_

* * *

 **CHAPTER NINE:  
** **7 Years, 6 Months, 1 Day  
** **Sunday, 13 November, 2005**

It had been quite awhile since she'd cried this much. But, tonight, she was huddled on the floor of her bathroom, hugging her knees to her chest, sobbing.

An hour earlier, she'd rushed from her flat to aimlessly walk through the night, ignoring the way the brisk breeze blew through the jeans and thin jumper she'd been wearing, having left too quickly to remember her coat. Cold rain had drizzled down by the time she'd almost gotten herself lost in a random series of turns, and she'd hugged her arms across her chest, ignoring the chattering of her teeth and startling chill of her wet hair.

Now, the cold was surely making things worse. She'd made her way home again, almost without conscious thought. But she could see his handwriting so clearly, burned into the backs of her eyelids, and-

Someone was knocking, weren't they? Her ears were ringing and her own gasping breaths mostly covered any other sounds around her.

But there it was - someone was calling her name.

"Hermione?"

Ginny pushed against the partially open bathroom door and stepped through, but Hermione was shivering too hard to properly respond.

"Oi!" Ginny crouched in front of her, grabbing ahold of her arm. "Hermione, what's wrong?!"

She shook her head, closing her eyes, feeling hot tears rush down her cheeks.

"You're _freezing_ ," Ginny pointed out, alarmed.

Her heart felt like it was beating three or four times harder than usual, and a thin, cold sweat had broken across her forehead.

"I was knocking on your door outside for five minutes, and when you didn't answer-"

"I'm s-sorry," she said weakly, watery eyes finding Ginny's.

"Are you ill?"

She shook her head, trying to sit up further against the wall, and Ginny reached to support her, eyebrows raised with alarm.

"Why's your hair wet?"

"I was w-walking outside in the r-rain."

"Damn, you'll _make_ yourself ill then. What's happened?"

She shook her head, not wanting to say it. Ginny stared at her for a long moment as she tried to catch her breath.

"You need a hot bath," Ginny finally tried, a questioning gaze meeting Hermione's, and she nodded.

Ginny reluctantly let her go to turn on the taps, and the sound of rushing water distracted her from reality for several blissful moments. But it was right there, too close, and it came back too fast. And when Ginny turned back to face her as Hermione slipped off her shoes, she watched Ginny's forehead crease once more with worry.

How was it possible to feel so low after so long? But it came in waves, as everyone had told her it would. There were days when she could cope… and then there were days when she'd open a book and find a piece of her past, and the world would crumble around her.

But her friend's concern was painful to see, and she wanted to be so much stronger than she knew she looked.

"Hermione-"

"I'm okay, I'm okay," but her voice broke into a fresh sob, and Ginny slipped an arm around Hermione's back.

"You don't have to be okay," Ginny said quietly, and though a part of Hermione still wanted to fight, a wave of relief washed over her to hear those words. "I want to help you, but you can tell me to bugger off if you-"

"No. Please stay."

Ginny nodded and began to help Hermione remove her soaked clothing, silent until she encountered a bruise on the right side of her ribs.

"What's this?" Ginny asked, carefully avoiding pressing against it, but Hermione had hardly noticed before seeing it now in her reflection, in the mirror, over the sink.

"Oh, it's n-nothing," she dismissed between hitching breaths. "It's fine."

She could feel Ginny's sceptical gaze on her, but Hermione's teeth were chattering horribly again, and the subject was dropped in favour of getting her into the hot tub. She sat with her legs hugged to her chest, and, as the water rose to the edge, Ginny turned off the taps… to ringing silence.

The room was too quiet, Hermione's uneven breathing echoing slightly off the porcelain tub as Ginny sat on the floor.

"Could you… t-turn on the shower?" Hermione asked softly, and Ginny nodded, removing the stopper to let some of the bath water drain out as it was refilled by the noisy spray of heat from overhead.

And, of course, she was reminded of everything. How could she not be? Each of their fleeting moments together had been burned indelibly into her mind, and the last time she'd sat on the floor of a tub with the shower running, he'd been with her, at the Burrow… the very last day… the last day of his life.

 _She'd woken at five o'clock in the morning, her back against his bare chest, his arm draped over her waist, and his face half-buried in her hair._

 _For a while, she'd tried to stay there, overwhelmed by the incredible feeling of being in his bed, so much of his skin on hers, his gentle breath on her neck. But her mind whirred with thoughts of the day, what they had to do when they arrived in Australia… She was shaking before she realised it, and he woke up slowly, confused._

" _Hey," he said in a sleepy, scratchy voice that made her stomach flutter. "S'wrong?"_

 _He propped up on an elbow and scanned her face, and she attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace._

" _Just thinking."_

" _I'd guessed that much…"_

 _He seemed quite nervous now, but maybe he just thought she was thinking about_ him _. They_ were _, in fact, in his bed, together, barely clothed, with the faintest hint of dawn drifting purple through his window…_

" _I just woke up and couldn't fall back to sleep."_

" _I wasn't snoring or something, was I?"_

" _No. Well… yes, a little," she grinned, "but you weren't bothering me."_

 _He wrinkled his nose adorably._

" _Sorry."_

 _She shook her head and picked up his hand, running her fingers over the backs of his knuckles. His gaze drifted down to stare at their hands until she sniffed lightly, breaking his concentration._

" _I think I'll take a shower, while everyone's still asleep," she said. "Do you- …will you come with me?"_

 _His eyebrows shot up, and she let go of his hand, cheeks burning. She hadn't even fully thought about what she was asking until she had already asked it._

" _I only meant… I don't want to keep lying here, just thinking about Australia," she reasoned, hoping she sounded far less flustered than she felt, "but I know, when I'm alone, it's hard to think of anything else. But- but you really don't have to. We're leaving in a few hours, anyway…"_

 _He blinked at her, and she watched his Adam's apple move noticeably as he swallowed._

" _You want me to take a shower with you?"_

 _It had seemed oddly natural to ask, at first, recalling the way they'd comforted each other, at Hogwarts, just after the war had ended. They'd stood in the showers together, in their clothes, just holding each other. But this really wasn't the same, and hearing him use direct words-_

" _Well," she breathed, somehow managing to flush further, "when you say it like that, it sounds…" The topic she was circling felt infinitely more impossible to discuss in the early morning light than it had the night before, in the dark. "You really don't have to, Ron. Don't-"_

" _I'm not complaining."_

 _The right corner of his mouth moved the tiniest bit upward, and his eyes locked with hers, which shocked her for a moment. He was obviously quite nervous but somehow managing to be right here with her anyway, with only the softest hint of a blush rushing to the tips of his ears._

" _We prob'ly have an hour, at least, before anyone else is awake," he added, voice going a bit rough and scratchy, and her heart was suddenly beating much faster than it had been before._

" _I'll go to Ginny's for a second and get, um, a bra and… I'll meet you in the loo, okay?"_

 _He nodded, and she climbed out of his bed, not looking back as she headed for the door. Creeping quietly down the stairs, she was much more fully aware of how little she was wearing, and she kept thinking back to the night before and the incredible way he had looked at her… the way he had touched her. At least it was early enough yet that she could slip into Ginny's room, unnoticed._

 _Minutes later, she was standing in the centre of loo with the strong shower stream running down into the tub behind her, filling the room with steam. She'd left the door open just a crack, for him. And, after a few brief seconds, he slowly pushed it open, licking his bottom lip and distracting her as he shut it completely behind him. Without a word, she swished her wand toward the door and silently locked them inside, placing her wand on the counter and staring up at him._

 _All that was left for her to do was to take off her nightdress. She was now wearing relatively modest knickers and a bra underneath, and it wasn't even about being half-naked in front of him, really - she had gone to his room the night before, ready for that… much more, honestly. But it was the idea that_ she'd _asked him here,_ she'd _gone to his room…_ she'd _been the one to initiate a lot of things between them, and though she wasn't really doubting how invested he was, she was also uncertain about being the one to keep going first._

" _Are you sure this is alright?" she whispered, watching his face closely for any minute reactions she could overanalyse…_

 _His left eyebrow twitched, he swallowed, and he let out a stifled exhale through his nose._

" _Yeah," he said in a low, raspy voice. "More than alright."_

" _Should I take this off?" she heard herself ask, loosely holding the hem of her nightdress and breathing between parted lips as she waited for him to reply. She stared back at him, wondering exactly what he could see in her gaze - those millions of words constantly buzzing through her brain - but he took a step closer… another._

" _No," he said, and it was then that she noticed his hands were shaking. "Can I?"_

 _She nodded and dropped her hand to her side and didn't stop looking at him as he lightly cleared his throat… and he reached for the exact spot where her hand had just been. If he was waiting for any more permission, she could easily give it. She lifted her arms above her head and watched him inhale deeply before dragging the thin material up her body, over her head, tugging it off her arms and dropping it to the floor._

 _He looked at her then like he'd never seen anything he wanted more, cared for more, loved more… and, as little confidence as she had in her own appearance, she had to hope she knew him well enough to interpret his expression, a look she'd only seen glimpses of before. For her. His eyes creased a bit at the corners, and she could sense he was about to say something, but her body was being rapidly consumed by gooseflesh, and he was overdressed._

" _Now yours," she said shakily, staring at his chest, reaching for the bottom of his shirt as he lifted his arms just slightly away from his sides. She pulled the shirt up his warm body, and he had to help her yank it forward, over his shoulders and head, shaking it off his arms to join her nightdress at their feet._

 _A comforting cloud of stream had settled in the room from the heat of the water still rushing behind her, and she took his hand gently, climbing into the tub and suddenly thinking better of just standing there together. She dropped his hand again to sit on the porcelain floor, relieved when he joined her without question._

 _She tucked her knees up to her chest, and, for a minute, she felt a bit silly to have asked him to do this, as if she couldn't be alone for minutes at a time. That was untrue, of course, because the difference was that she_ could… _but she simply didn't want to. Why waste more days, hours, minutes… when they were finally together, after so long? Too long._

 _But then all her anxious thoughts melted away as he leaned forward and rested his chin on her knee and smiled at her._

" _Good idea, this," he said, as his soaked fringe dripped into his eyes, and he blinked rapidly._

 _She smiled back, a soft laugh exhaling as she reached up to brush his fringe off his forehead, allowing her fingers to linger in his hair as he closed his eyes. After a few moments, he draped his right arm around her legs, tilted his head down, and pressed a kiss to her knee. And she knew that everything was going to be fine, no matter what happened. Because they had each other. Did he know she had the whole rest of her life planned now with him in it?_

 _After that, they nearly forgot to be careful about the time, passing lazy minutes kissing between laughter as they washed each other's hair, his hands taking far too long to scrub soap down her back, and her fingertips lovingly tracing the scars that wrapped around his forearms. Eventually, she froze in the middle of replacing her hand on his right shoulder with her lips._

" _What?" he asked._

" _Should we hurry, in case someone's awake?"_

" _Sod it," he suggested, lacing his fingers with hers and grinning._

" _We're so close now," she laughed. "We'll be gone in a couple of hours."_

" _Yeah, alright," he conceded, still grinning. "C'mon, then. You can help me pack."_

" _You haven't packed yet?!"_

 _He laughed, shaking his head, and she playfully glared at him._

" _There," he said. "That's why I haven't done it."_

" _What is?"_

 _He reached up and touched her cheek with the tip of his finger._

" _The way you look at me."_

 _Her pulse sped up, suddenly forgetting why she was supposed to be annoyed. His hand drifted down to her neck, and she closed her eyes as he softly kissed her, still smiling._

She had finally stopped shivering, and Ginny had turned off the shower again as they'd started to talk.

"I don't want to feel like this anymore," Hermione said dully, staring blankly down at the now-lukewarm water in which she was sitting.

"I know," Ginny said sadly, and there really was nothing more she could do to help. And yet Hermione felt that she owed Ginny an explanation, at least. She finally felt like she could say it, without breaking again.

"I was flipping through my first copy of Hogwarts: A History… and I found a folded note he'd written, stuck between two pages. I'd never seen it before."

"What?" Ginny's eyebrows shot up, shocked.

"He… he left it in the book for me," she sniffed, "while we were living in the tent, because… well, we weren't really speaking much at the time."

"And you just found it today?"

She nodded, and she could see the words so clearly, _his_ words, achingly familiar handwriting across a slightly faded sheet of parchment which was currently lying open on her unmade bed.

A part of her wanted to memorise every word-

 _Hermione,_

 _I know you still hate me, so I reckoned you'd be more likely to read this bloody book again and find this note before you'd let me say this to your face. This might be cheating, as well, because it'll be easier anyway. I know I've been an arse. I'd use a different, much worse word if I said it out loud. Just use your imagination._

 _I'm outside on watch right now, and I know you're not really asleep, but you've been faking it. I went in to find a quill, and I caught you snapping your eyes shut. I thought if I caught you awake, I'd try to get you to come out here and talk while Harry's in there snoring, but it's okay. Like I said, good excuse to make this easier._

 _I haven't really been honest with you. I haven't been lying, nothing like that, but maybe it's sort of the same thing to feel something and not tell you and then get hacked off when you can't read my mind. Seems bloody ridiculous now. If I wrote it all down, it'd be longer than Hogwarts: A History, which would defeat the whole purpose of wanting to hide this between the pages… I'll just write out a bit of it, and maybe I can tell you the rest in person, if you want to hear it._

 _I know you might not believe me right now. I know you begged me not to leave, and I did it anyway because, like I said, I'm an arse. And I was maybe a little bit possessed or some rubbish, but I'm not trying to make excuses. The point is that I'd pretty much do anything for you. No, I reckon 'pretty much' actually means literally anything, because if one of us is going to die, there is no way in hell it'll be you, if there's anything I can do about it. Fuck, there had better be something I can do about it. Sorry._

 _No, I'm not sorry, really. I mean, of course I am, for the leaving bit, and I'll never do that again. Never. Please trust me. No, I can't ask you that, blimey. But I do mean it, more than anything. I think you'll know that. I really hope you will._

 _What can I do to make things better? I know that's unfair to ask. Reckon I'm probably supposed to figure that out myself. Or maybe I just have to wait, but I'm bloody impatient, because I really miss you… like a lot. I seriously doubt you know how important you are to me, and if I freeze to death in the damn woods, I thought you should at least know that I'm trying to tell you now. You should also know that you're a whole lot more than a friend to me, but I can't write that all out yet. If you want to talk, you know where to find me, yeah? I live in a tent that still smells a bit like cat piss (not your fault, your cleansing spells are brilliant, and it's not your responsibility anyway), and my bunk's about a metre away from yours. Did you know you've been mumbling in your sleep? Sod it. It's adorable. I keep trying to make out the words but no luck so far._

 _It's starting to rain again, bugger. Hope this ink doesn't bleed. Love, Ron._

-and another part of her wanted to hide it where she could never find it again, hoping to forget it, to feel nothing, exactly what she so often longed to feel.

"Do you want me to stay with you tonight?" Ginny asked, sounding not the slightest bit put out by the idea, but it didn't feel necessary anymore.

"I'll be alright," Hermione tried to reassure her, "only… his l-letter's still on my bed. Maybe you could move it for me?"

"Of course. Should I take it home with me? I promise I won't read it."

Hermione managed a small smile back.

"I know you won't. And that's a good idea. Put it… in his trunk, maybe. Harry's still got it, hasn't he?"

"Always will, yeah," Ginny smiled back.

For a few more moments, they sat in silence, til Ginny spoke again.

"What really happened to your side?"

Confused, Hermione stared at her, until Ginny's gaze flicked down to the bruise on her ribs that she had forgotten.

"Oh. I wasn't paying attention and… I slipped on the wet stairs, coming back inside."

She tucked her knees a bit higher up, gently sloshing bathwater with her fingertips as she loosely clutched her shins.

"Would you maybe want to…" Ginny started slowly, "I dunno, go with me to see a healer this week?"

"It's just a bruise-"

"Not for that," Ginny clarified. "Maybe you could talk to someone, get something you could take for a while again to feel better, like you did right after… you know, after it happened."

"I shouldn't have stopped taking those potions they gave me," Hermione admitted, "but I really thought... After the wedding, I thought I was okay."

"Yeah."

"I still... still sometimes feel like I'm dreaming," she said at a near whisper, "like he's... still here, I just haven't seen him in a while..."

"You feel that way now?" Ginny asked quietly.

"No." Her stomach twisted with conflict, speaking the truth but never knowing if she really wanted it to be true.

"You scared us a bit," Ginny added, sighing. "Almost two weeks not hearing from you is a long time."

"Has it really been...?" Her eyebrows shot up, and she shook her head. "I'm sorry."

Halloween seemed all at once to have been only just yesterday… and so long ago now. She didn't want to be reminded of what had happened, but it was inevitable, and maybe it would help to say it.

"I made a stupid mistake," she began, hoarsely. "I… I slept with someone I met at the pub."

"Oh." If Ginny was judging her, she was hiding it well. "We did see you leaving with a bloke, yeah."

"I'd seen someone else earlier that night who looked so much like… like Ron… and I just…" She paused, shaking her head. "Everything here reminds me of him, even when I try not to think about it. I've honestly been considering if I should move away. It's wonderful I've got you and Harry, of course, and I'd rather not leave you, but…"

"Where would you go?"

"I don't know. France? I had thought of Australia, but… Maybe my parents don't want me there all the time."

"I'm sure that's not true. Not that I want you to go… You're my best friend, you know. No… sod that rubbish. You're my sister."

Hermione's eyes welled with a different sort of tears this time, and she smiled.

"I love you, Ginny."

"Love you."

She was so instantly reminded that not everything was bleak. She had Ginny. She had Harry, but...

"And if you do need to go," Ginny added, "you know we'll understand."

But it was late and quiet now, and Hermione wasn't ready to face making choices. She had a bottle of dreamless sleep on her night table, and that was as far as her plans were capable of taking her for the moment. So she nodded gratefully and cleared her throat.

"Could you do one more thing for me before you leave?" she asked.

"'Course. What do you need?"

"Hand me a towel?"

* * *

 **7 Years, 6 Months, 3 Days  
** **Tuesday, 15 November, 2005**

He really hadn't slept, since he'd managed to stun himself. He was too afraid to miss the mere seconds he would probably have to do this when they came back. But his eyes were burning, and the only things really keeping him awake at this point were frayed nerves and anticipation.

He had taken to pacing, obsessively reviewing his plan, when, at last, he heard them.

He froze, facing the door, heart pounding so fiercely he thought it might drown the sounds they made when the door opened. He was wrong, of course. They would be… well, there wasn't a word for that level of outrage, he was sure.

The door shot open with so much force that he flinched, losing half a second as he blinked. And then… they were _right there_.

"FUCKING LIAR!"

Mathilda was at him so furiously that he hardly had time to breathe, but Charlie and Isaac were too close behind her, nearly through the door, about to shut it again, when-

 _Stupefy! Expelliarmus! Incarcerous!_

At almost precisely the same moment, Matilda dropped to the floor, Charlie's wand flew through the air to Ron's outstretched hand, and Isaac was bound in a tight rope, locking his arms at his sides. Ron held the stolen want to chest height, as Charlie lunged to close the door.

"Stupefy!"

Charlie fell backward with such force it was a miracle his skull hadn't cracked on the stone floor. Isaac was writhing against his ropes, opening his mouth to shout-

"Petrificus totalus!" Ron bellowed, and Isaac's body went rigid as his eyes widened. He tipped backward, landing with a thud on top of Charlie.

Ron shoved Charlie's wand between his teeth and skidded to Matilda's unconscious body, quickly locating her wand in a robe pocket and holding it in a white-knuckled fist as he crawled over to Isaac and searched him as well. Seconds ticked anxiously past in his mind, and he felt a wild panic wash over him as he finally snatched up the third wand and bolted for the door. Gasping, sweat pouring down the back of his neck, he tugged the door shut, and a booming echo bounced off the long corridor walls.

The corridor. This was it. He was _out_.

He sprinted, all three wands clutched tight in one hand, heart pounding wildly as he approached an open door on the left. All he could do was keep running, whoever was there… But, as he flashed by, he spotted Evelyn sitting in the middle of a made up bed, combing the hair of a doll in her lap. He paused, her gaze darted up to his, and he opened his mouth to speak, but he didn't get the chance.

She screamed. A high-pitched, ear-splitting noise, abandoning her doll and scrambling to her feet by the side of her bed.

To hell with it. Cringing against the sound of her voice, terrified of never making it now, he took off again, somehow even faster this time, the _thud, thud, thud_ of his footfalls echoing the throbbing pulse in the side of his neck.

He reached a set of stone stairs, taking them three at a time, and, as he emerged to a second corridor, he could see it, at the far end. A door, with a small square of white light… a tiny window at the top-

He heard a deep voice, far behind him, but there was only one thing he had to do now. And he couldn't look back. His body slammed into metal, and the door shot open, his shoulder still against it as it swung on its hinges, and he stumbled outside.

"Fuck!"

He squinted harshly against bright sunlight, _too damn bright_ … Bloody hell, he hadn't been outside in- in-

No. There wasn't time for this. Apparate away. Go straight to the Aurors. Send them here.

He sprinted further forward, through a rocky meadow, eyes nearly shut against blinding light. And then, heaving a breath, he shoved two wands into his back pocket and held up the third.

 _Destination. Determination. Deliberation._

* * *

"How are you feeling?" Harry asked, from where he was sitting across a Ministry cafeteria table from Hermione, at lunch.

"I'm alright," and she was, really. She'd managed half a sandwich, which was quite an improvement from the weekend.

"Good," he said, thankfully dropping the subject.

"Haven't you got that raid today?" she asked, as he took an enormous bite out of his second sandwich, pausing to chew before answering her.

"Tomorrow morning. But we head up there tonight to set up."

"I couldn't believe the report Dawn gave me on the goblin they've got chained up in their cellar! What kind of monsters-

"I know. But we've got all the evidence we need, really - the silver they've been selling, no other accounts for their wealth, and those horrible photos the son sent in. We'll make the arrests if they show up. The raid is formality-"

"And to rescue that poor goblin," she added firmly.

"Of course," Harry agreed, smiling across at her before stuffing his last, large chunk of sandwich into his mouth and standing as he chewed.

"Good luck, Harry."

"Cheers. If all goes to schedule, I'll be back by dinner tomorrow. Want to meet me at the pub at seven? Ginny's got practice til late, but she said she'd head there after."

"Sure."

"If you're not feeling up to it-"

"I'm fine, Harry. I'll see you there."

* * *

 _62442_

He was panting as he dialed, forearm pressed to the glass inside the telephone box as a polite female voice called out.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"Ron Weasley, for anyone in the Auror Department, and it's urgent!"

He was slowly comprehending the looming fact he'd been avoiding… that, if things had gone to Harry's original career plan, he would likely be here. Ron might see him in _minutes_. His throat constricted as the voice inside the telephone spoke again.

"Thank you. Visitor, please take your badge and attach it to the front of your robes."

A familiar looking badge slid out from the coin slot below the telephone, and Ron snatched it up with a shaking hand, affixing it lopsidedly to his sweaty, torn shirt.

"Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search-"

"Bloody hell."

"-and present your wand-"

"Yeah, I've got it, at the end of the Atrium! Did you hear the word urgent?!"

At last, the telephone box began to make its painstaking descent, and a million thoughts flashed blindingly through his mind. He was quite certain it wasn't fully registering that he was free, but he hadn't had a second to spare to focus on it. Right now, the most important thing was to get to the Aurors and give them the wand he'd Apparated with so they could view the echo of the last spell he had performed to determine where he had been held, where three of his captors were hopefully still locked inside the room that had been his home for the last seven and a half years…

The Atrium emerged at his feet, slowly moving further and further up into view. And his chest clenched with panic. All these people, too many people. Bustling through the Atrium were dozens of witches and wizards, shoes clicking on the polished floor, chattering voices as bits of conversation were audible through the broken glass panes of the telephone box as it came to a stop.

"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant-"

He forced open the door and was immediately sprinting away, the cheery voice inside the box fading behind him. He quite deliberately avoided eye contact with everyone, feeling so many surprised stares as he bolted past. He must look mad, he realised, matted hair and beard and dreadfully filthy clothes. But he had one thing to do, and he couldn't be deterred.

He arrived at the check in desk, slamming his hand on top of the counter and causing the short wizard sitting behind it to jump out of his seat with shock.

"I have to get to the Aurors, _now!"_

The wizard blinked at him, fumbling for words. Ron dropped his three stolen wands to the counter and held out his arms.

"Search me."

* * *

"Mr Weasley, we've got it."

Clarke, the middle-aged Auror in neatly pressed robes who had escorted Ron up from the Atrium, stepped through the door excitedly. Ron had been impatiently waiting at a small table with a young Auror who had spoken no more than two or three words to him since his arrival a quarter of an hour ago.

"You've seen where I was?" Ron clarified quickly, as Clarke placed the wand Ron had used to Apparate on the table.

"Yes. We've already got a team on the way there." He shook his head, astounded. "It's quite unbelievable, what you've told us."

It had been a frenzied explanation, to say the least. He had almost asked for Harry outright, which would have possibly saved some time in his identification, but he had found himself nearly unable to say his name. When he'd first arrived, he'd had two equally compelling reasons not to mention it - because he'd thought it best to avoid coming across as a madman looking for an audience with a famous wizard… and because he was fucking terrified. How could he resume his life after so much time had passed? How could he hope catch up?

Now, he had to know.

"Sir… can you tell me, does Harry Potter work here?"

"Of course," Clarke said immediately, eyebrows raised. "Been with the Aurors for ages."

But Clarke's expression changed dramatically as he clearly put some important pieces together.

"Good Lord. How could I not realise? Ron Weasley. You were with Potter at Hogwarts during the battle in 1998."

"Yeah," Ron said hoarsely, heart beating rapidly again. Harry was _here_.

"He's out making arrests up north til tomorrow night or I'd bring him right in to see you," Clarke added, shaking his head again. "Amazing. Listen, you ought to be examined. Harris can escort you to St Mungo's." He glanced at the young, dark haired Auror who was still sitting quietly to Ron's left. "You'll have to come back in for detailed questioning once arrests are made, but with what you've been through…"

"Actually, could I wait here?" He felt a strange sort of panic escalating again at the thought of leaving just yet. "I'll go once you've caught them. I just… need to be sure."

"Understandable," Clarke said, half-chuckling as he removed the stolen wand from the table and turned to go.

"Could I ask one more thing?" Her name was right there, on the tip of his tongue. He could say it. Stop thinking, just say it.

"Go on."

"Do you know if someone called Hermione Granger works here, at the Ministry, in any department?"

"Potter's closest friend? Always interfering with our work?" but his tone was bemused, not annoyed, and he nodded, smiling. "Oh sure, we all know her. I can send for her-"

"No." Ron's hands were shaking, so he clenched them into fists and lowered them to his lap. "Not yet."

"Alright, well, if you change your mind…" and Clarke moved away toward the door. "I'll let you know as soon as we have news. And Harris, get Mr Weasley a meal and something to drink."

"Yes, Sir."

* * *

She'd arrived back from lunch to avalanches of paperwork, covering her desk. For an hour or so, she'd tried to work whilst attempting to ignore her department co-workers as they'd passed back and forth in front of her open door. But she was deep in an important report involving three proposed improvements to house-elf rights, and she'd finally given up and locked herself inside her office. She really did enjoy her job, most of the time, and she felt like she had an occasional positive impact on things she believed in, but it often took so much unnecessary effort to push through a change that felt minuscule and even archaic, as if it should have been taken as read long ago.

By five o'clock, her eyes were stinging a bit from lack of sleep the previous night, and it was awfully cold in her drafty office. She could as easily finish her work at home as she could here at her desk. So, she packed her bag and draped her cloak over her arm, deciding to take the floo today, directly to her flat.

As she emerged from her office, Dawn, her department's secretary, popped up from her chair and rushed over.

"Did you hear about the man who was running through the Atrium this afternoon?!"

Startled, Hermione shook her head.

"I didn't see him myself, but Frankie told me he looked like a raving lunatic, shouting something at Bernard about needing to get to the Auror offices."

"They'll have handled it, then?" A part of her was curious, of course, but it wasn't her case. Not that this fact had stopped her often before. But she was tired, and her bag was heavy with notes and file folders laden with undetectable extension charms, and she was looking forward to a large cup of tea and spreading her own work across her coffee table…

"I'm sure they have," Dawn replied. "No one's seen him leave the Ministry."

"You didn't catch his name, did you?" Hermione knew that Dawn's curiosity for gossip typically led to the most direct source for interdepartmental news, but Dawn shook her head and sighed disappointedly.

"No. Wish I had. Surely it'll be all over the office by tomorrow."

"Surely," Hermione smiled, adjusting the strap of her bag and escaping toward the door. "Well, I'm heading home. See you in the morning!"

* * *

He'd been waiting for four bloody hours. He'd eaten more today than he had over the last two weeks combined. He was free. The people who had taken him from his life might finally be caught today. And Hermione was _in the same building as him._

He had never felt such a strong ache of conflict in his entire life.

His months and months of holding onto the past and trying to imagine her now had just become a frightening reality. When he envisioned seeing his family again, it was only a nervous anticipation that consumed him. But, with her… If he'd been gone mere months - a year, even - he might not be so afraid. But seven and a half fucking years?! Things would be different between them - how could they not?

He thought back to the night he'd returned after leaving them on the Horcrux hunt. As he'd walked with Harry from the pool where he'd destroyed the locket, toward the tent, his heart had beat madly in his ears and his stomach had twisted into a complicated knot that most closely resembled terrified excitement. He was going to see her, after weeks apart, and… Though his expectations had jumped wildly around over the few days prior to his return, when he would truly imagine seeing them again, he'd somehow land on believing she'd be happy about his return. In fact, _happy_ was honestly an understatement. He'd envisioned a scenario in which he walked through the tent flap and she ran across the canvas floor, threw her arms around his neck, and didn't let go for several hours.

God. What a tosser.

Now, what possible fantasy outcome could he hope to cling to? _Weeks and weeks_ had got him pummeled many times by her startlingly strong fists, followed by a couple more months of on and off stony silence, only broken by occasional polite conversation if the topic didn't stray too far from their mission.

Logically, he knew that everything was different this time. He really couldn't take the blame for what had happened at all, but…

He was circling and circling round the echoing thoughts he'd dreaded, twisting his stomach this time into a knot of fearful despair, when the door to his waiting room burst open to reveal a pleased looking Clarke.

"Mr Weasley, we've got them. All six of them and the child were there together, and they've been taken into custody. Well done."

A rubber band of tension snapped, and he was a bit too overwhelmed to speak right away. This was it, he realised, that moment he had known would arrive when the reality of his freedom would fully hit him. Though he had constantly fantasised about this day, it had remained a blurry picture. Now, it was so blindingly real, and he had to face so many people who would be completely shocked by his reappearance. He had to relearn what his future would be.

But he was suddenly quite thoroughly exhausted. It hit him like a tidal wave. It had been days since he'd slept at all, years since he'd done it properly. He let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes.

"You've been through hell, to say the least," Clarke continued, no longer waiting for Ron to speak. "Harris will escort you now to St Mungo's, where you can get cleaned up and rest."

Ron cracked opened his bleary eyes again to consider his options, but he had to wait. Sleep would clear his head. Clean clothes. A hot shower...

"Who should we inform for you? Potter? Ms Granger-"

"No one. Please. Just… for now."

* * *

In a blur of half-consciousness, he'd listened to Harris signing him in to St Mungo's, followed an elderly healer down a long corridor to a private room, and collapsed on a narrow cot, eyes drifting shut, the room around him fading to silent darkness.

* * *

 **7 Years, 6 Months, 4 Days  
** **Wednesday, 16 November, 2005**

Ginny was sitting on the edge of Hermione's desk, swinging her legs, finishing a bag of crisps as Hermione ignored the takeaway Ginny had brought her for lunch in favour of a sheet of frantic notes she was taking from a thick, open book in front of her.

"Hermione."

The scratching of a quill on new parchment was all that replied.

"Oi, Hermione."

"Hm?" but she didn't look up.

"You've got to stop long enough to eat, haven't you?"

The scratching continued for several drawn out seconds before she finally paused to look up at Ginny.

"Have you got another bag of those crisps?" she asked, sniffing.

"In there," and Ginny pointed to the large, paper bag by Hermione's left elbow.

"Oh. Thank you."

She rustled through it and located the crisps as Ginny licked her lips and hopped down from Hermione's desk to throw away her own now-empty bag.

"I know you're busy, but I've got a few hours before I have to leave for practice. Any chance you'd go with me to St Mungo's?"

"Tomorrow, Ginny. I promise," she said, grimacing apologetically. "I've just got too much work to finish before I leave today."

"Alright, tomorrow," Ginny nodded, clearly planning to hold her to it. "I'll scarper and let you focus, but eat more than just the crisps, yeah? See you tonight at the pub?"

"Yeah, see you."

* * *

He woke slowly to a throbbing headache, sore muscles, and the last steaks of daylight fading pink through the window across the room. Gasping, he bolted upright, blinking as he came back from nightmares to his new reality.

He was on a cot, at St Mungo's, and he was free.

He'd slept so deeply that his last discernible memory was of collapsing, the previous evening. He could only guess how long it must have been by the fact that, when he'd arrived here, the sun had fully set, starry darkness peeking through sheer curtains.

Now fully awake, he became acutely aware of several things, the most urgent one being that he really had to take a piss. He scrambled out of bed in search of a loo, opening the door to his room and stepping out into the corridor.

"Mr Weasley!" An older witch with frizzy grey hair that he thought he vaguely recognised from the night before was walking toward him from several doors down, looking pleased. "So glad to see you up and about! We've been wondering if we should wake you, but we didn't want to disturb you too much after everything… Well, Mr Harris was kind enough to inform as about a few things while you were resting."

"Is he still here?"

"Oh, no. He went home last night. How are you feeling?"

"Just looking for the loo…"

"Of course, right this way." She led him to the opposite end of the corridor and motioned toward a narrow door. "I've been told you've requested discretion, but are you sure there's no one you'd like us to notify? Our records indicate… well, frankly, you're supposed to be dead."

"I know," he said simply, throat feeling a bit raw, and he quickly disappeared into the loo.

He took two steps before he saw it - his own reflection in the mirror over the sinks.

Overcome, he was frozen. He hadn't seen what he looked like in seven and a half years.

His face was half-obscured by a matted, copper and auburn beard, and his hair was unrecognisable, a twisted tangle of ginger down past his shoulders. It was a joke to even call the grotty bits of cloth and denim he was wearing 'clothes' - a formerly white t-shirt now torn to the shoulder stitching and threadbare, stained so many different shades of red, brown and black that he had no idea how to differentiate the sources of them; and a pair of loose, ripped and badly frayed jeans that had slid dangerously down over his hip bones. His cheekbones seemed to stand out more than he recalled, cutting into milky-pale, freckled skin. His shoulders were a bit broader, and bloody hell, he reckoned he'd actually grown a bit taller, somehow. Dark circles felt permanent underneath his eyes, and he had to look away, secure now in his decision not to see anyone yet who had known him before… they certainly wouldn't know him now.

Once finished in the loo, he slipped back into the corridor with one goal, enough for the moment. But Hermione's smile flashed through his mind, and he felt his chest constrict with longing. Harry's voice echoed in his ears. He'd been waiting for such a long time. He could wait just one more hour to get cleaned up, to more accurately bear the resemblance of the person who had disappeared as long ago now as the years they'd known each other.

The grey-haired healer was still waiting for him, a polite distance away from the loo.

"Sorry, could I bother you for a razor?" he asked, and she nodded, just as a tall, male healer approached her and smiled.

"Good evening, Mr Weasley."

"This is Lloyd. He can help you with whatever you need."

"Reckon you'd like a shower?" Lloyd suggested.

"Brilliant," Ron agreed, and Lloyd motioned for him to follow around a corner, down a flight of stairs.

"I've rummaged a bit for some clothes. Mind you, it's just what's been left behind, over the years," Lloyd explained. "They've been washed, of course, but whatever fits you, you're welcome to it."

"Oh, cheers."

They had arrived at a long, empty room, tiled in a soothing blue, with shower stalls lining one wall.

"Take your time," Lloyd said kindly. "Clothes are on the benches, round the corner, by the lockers. You should find everything you need - soap, razors, towels… and anything else you can't find, just give a shout. I'll be doing the washing for a bit, in the next room, down the hall."

He had lost track of time at some point, sitting on the floor of the shower, arms draped across his knees, head bent forward, letting the rushing water drown his thoughts. Everything was all at once impossibly overwhelming and unbelievably emotional. He had sobbed uncontrollably for quite a while, but his tears had eventually slowed to a stop, in favour of just simply breathing, steam pleasantly filling his lungs.

Finally, he dragged himself to his feet, shut off the water, and wrapped a large, fluffy towel around his body, oddly unaccustomed to anything soft or comforting.

His hair was next, and he began by simply slicing off chunks of it from the back with a pair of scissors he'd found in a locker, moving to his beard from there and cutting it quite close to his skin. Truth came when he began with the razor, revealing his face underneath. His bare skin felt cold and exposed, and he was surprised that the scars he had expected to see across his face really weren't there at all. His suspicions about Bern applying Dittany to his wounds must have been correct.

"Well… cheers for that," he said, to his own reflection.

Clothes were next up, and it took him several tries to find a pair of jeans that fit both the length of his legs and the circumference of his waist. But, at last, he landed on a black pair with a small fray in the right hem. Good enough. The rest was easier - a plain, black t-shirt and a lightweight, olive green jacket with a slightly folded up collar and large pockets.

He ran his hand through his still damp, freshly cut hair, and moved back in front of the mirror again.

This was him, as close as he could get. He still tried to see the things that had changed, all the minute differences in the lines of his face, the blotchy redness of his cheeks and neck from the heat of the shower… his tired eyes, a small cut where he'd nicked his jaw with the razor.

Fucking hell.

He gripped the porcelain sink in front of him, blinking. Could he really do this, _now_?

Could he stand to find out where her life had taken her, the new people she had met along the way… whoever she was with now? Could he do it… without holding onto delusions of hope that she'd _actually_ do exactly what he'd made himself believe, before… run across the room, throw her arms around his neck, and not let go for several hours?

He didn't want her to let go for the rest of his life.

And his own eyes stared back through the mirror at him, judging him, searching and finding no shred of confidence, nothing but fear… and longing, so much longing. With nowhere for it to go.


	10. 7 Years, 6 Months, 4 Days

_**A/N:** I had totally intended to reply to all the reviews I got for the last few updates before posting this one, but time slipped away from me! Just know how much I love and appreciate everyone's support and the fact that we are all in this together! I say it a lot, but this fandom means SO much to me. I'll get back to everyone ASAP!_

 _This chapter had to be split in half, which is making me sound like a broken record here lately, but it got a little out of hand while I was editing it. This whole section of this fic was wayyy less formed when I set out to start posting, and it just goes downhill from there. For instance, not a single word of the final chapter has been typed, so… My ambitious attempt to finish this fic before Christmas has been thwarted, mainly by my own hyper excitement making me shortsighted of the amount of Actual Work (both on this fic and in RL) there was to be done…_

 _I really hope this chapter does justice to what I know you have all been waiting for. I think the second half will really be… the more fulfilling half, if you know what I'm saying…_

 _I also just need to clarify that when you encounter the word "kerb," yes, it is correct (I think). It's the British English spelling. I know, I was surprised, too. I don't think this has come up for me before! Glad I checked it._

 _Special thanks to the song "Taxi" by EXES and to my DEM buddies for our conversation about "making it snow." :) "Coming apart" is also dedicated to DEM._

 _And, of course, "beautiful face" is dedicated to my wonderful shocolate. x_

 _I really hope everyone who celebrates Christmas has a great holiday and, to everyone else, a lovely weekend! xx_

* * *

 **CHAPTER TEN:**

 **7 Years, 6 Months, 4 Days**

 **Wednesday, 16 November, 2005**

He had to do it, now, or he might change his mind.

He'd left St Mungo's and gone back to the Ministry, his only point of reference, and Harris had told him.

 _They're probably at the Muggle pub, round the corner from the Leaky._

He could see the lights inside from where he stood, less than a block away. If they were there, then this was it.

* * *

She'd arrived a bit late, but so had Harry. His mission had gone incredibly well, and they'd had three drinks each, already, celebrating. The only snag had come when she'd spotted Jack at the bar. He had yet to make eye contact, but she suspected he knew she was there. She had no real reason to think he'd want to speak to her again, but it was becoming quite a bit uncomfortable, being in the same room…

She was standing across from Harry at a tall, round table, his half-full glass of whisky next to her glass of melting ice, and she thought she should probably take a break, wait for Ginny before she bought another round at least. Another part of her was already beginning to plot an escape home. She had plenty of work to keep her busy.

She bent down to tug the slipping heel of her shoe back up to her ankle.

Quite suddenly, the tiny hairs on her arms stood on end, and she held her breath, lightheaded. It could have been the alcohol, the way she'd leaned forward, the fact that she'd hardly eaten today…

" _Hermione."_

…or it could have been the muffled voice that seemed to speak from behind her, that voice she only ever heard in her dreams or inside her own head. She straightened up too fast, clutching the edge of the table. She was going to finally go mental, actually mental, in the middle of a crowded, noisy pub, on a Wednesday night with-

" _Harry."_

Goosepimples spread rapidly to cover her whole body. Her eyes were watering, and she felt her legs weaken, every part of her trying to bolt from what was clearly impossible. Harry was staring over her shoulder, eyes wide and round, his face quite pale, even in the low light. If Harry had heard it, too… but he _couldn't_ have. He couldn't…

"H-Harry…" she stuttered, barely audible.

"Who the hell are you?" Harry's deep voice boomed past her, and she couldn't bear to look. Someone's idea of a terrible joke was obviously standing behind her, and if she turned round, she'd hex him-

"It's really me."

Her next breath was wrenched from her lungs, and she clutched the table in front her. His simple words washed over her, and she was shaking head to toe. Ron's voice. He was speaking in _Ron's voice_.

"Prove it," Harry growled, face going red with anger.

"I left you on the Horcrux hunt, and when I came back, Slytherin's locket showed me you and Hermione snogging."

"Oh my God." Harry's expression morphed quite immediately from rage to utter disbelief, and he reached forward to clutch Hermione's arm. "Hermione, turn around." She felt too weak to move, but she didn't get the chance to try before he stepped around the table, took ahold of her elbows, and did it for her.

Shock. Pure shock. That was the only way to describe what she felt, as if any words would be enough.

Ron was standing a metre away from her.

His blue eyes were staring right back at her.

She was _dreaming_. It was the only answer.

 _He was dead. He was dead. He was dead._

"It's him," Harry said, hands tightening almost painfully on her arms. "No one else knew what he just told me, not even you, Hermione. Let's go outside."

Tears rushed down her cheeks, blurring her vision of Ron out of focus, and she couldn't breathe. He wasn't here. He _wasn't._

Harry steered her mechanically toward the back door, Ron leading the way, his ginger hair a bit too long, his shoulders broader than she recalled, and-

No. No, no, no!

This wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

The door burst open, and they stepped out to the cold, dark alley, allowing the door to slam echoing shut behind them.

"I…" Ron started, and he turned to face them again, his own cheeks coated in fresh tears as he sniffed and roughly wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. "Fuckin' hell, I'm s-sorry."

"You arse!" Harry shouted, but he let go of Hermione and gripped Ron's shoulders, tugging him down for a tight hug, fists clenched in the back of his jacket as they cried.

Hermione stumbled backward, fortunate to find a brick wall for support as she collapsed to the ground, landing on the dirty concrete with her hands shaking violently as she watched them. Her eyes darted at random down Ron's body, things she never knew she could recognise about him, the tiniest details. She couldn't make the vision go away, as many times as she blinked and gasped to catch her breath.

This was _real_. It couldn't be real, but it _was_.

His head was ducked over Harry's shoulder, but he lifted his gaze to her, eyes peeking through his fringe.

"M'so sorry," he said again, almost a whisper, as he backed away from Harry, staring down at her, worry etched in the lines of his face.

"You were _dead_! We saw you dead!" Harry shouted fiercely, still clutching Ron's arm.

"I know. I know, they wanted you to think that."

"Who? What are you-"

"They killed another bloke who looked a lot like me, burned his face and body and left him where Hermione would find him. I've been locked in a room underground for seven and a half fucking years."

The door to the pub burst open, and Hermione jumped up to her feet with surprise, flattening her body to the wall behind her. Jack's face poked out, scanning the alley and locating her.

"Hey, love," he slurred. "Thought you'd left-"

"P-Please," she cried, voice small and breaking, "you have t-to g-go."

She felt Ron's eyes on her, taking in the first words she'd spoken aloud since she'd looked at him.

"C'mon, mate," Harry said as he approached a confused looking Jack, ushering him back inside and glancing out again quickly. "Stay here, Hermione. Stay with Ron."

As if she could move. As if she could _breathe_.

The door banged shut again, and they were alone.

Ron stared across at her, silent. And she couldn't look away, her own eyes shouting and crying and begging every word she couldn't say. What did he want her to know, the way he was looking at her? It was all too much. Way too much.

 _He's alive. He's alive. He's alive._

She pressed the palms of both hands into the rough brick behind her, and she thought of every time they'd ever spoken without words, every conversation they'd had with looks and gestures and _feelings_. Something snapped, and her sobs wracked her body, silent tremors at first, but then aching, gasping cries.

She felt completely hysterical and out of control, but she didn't care. She distantly registered far away laughter as a couple walked down the sidewalk to her left.

"Ermynee…" He took the smallest step closer, and she dizzily gazed at him. No one said her name the way he did.

He had startled her enough to breathe sharply, enough to try to speak.

"Y-you're really… _h-here_ …" she choked, hardly expecting him to understand her.

She raised her hand in front of her, outstretched and trembling furiously. She could only truly believe it if she could feel him. She had no possible way to explain, words strangling her as he took another small step toward her, staring at her hand. And then, with the muffled sounds of the pub behind them fading far into the background, he raised his own arm, extending his fingers toward her hand.

The tips of his index and middle fingers touched the tips of hers.

The pub door banged open once more, and Harry appeared, shock still etched across his face as he approached them, Hermione's hand dropping away to the wall behind her.

"Let's go to my flat," Harry suggested. "Ginny just got here, but I told her to meet us at home. Didn't say why. Ron…" Harry paused, shaking his head. "I… I married your sister."

"Hoped you would," Ron said, barely glancing away from Hermione long enough to attempt a smile at Harry.

"How'd you even find us?!" Harry continued, shaking his head, dumbfounded. "Shit, you're _alive_."

"A bloke called Harris at the Auror office told me you might be here."

"You've been to the Ministry," Harry clarified.

"First stop, yeah. Had to tell 'em where the fuckers were who took me."

"St Mungo's?"

"Yeah, but m'fine. Last injuries healed a while ago. They left me alone for… quite a while. It's a lot to explain, obviously. But I'll tell you everything."

"We're both pissed," Harry reasoned, indicating himself and Hermione. "God. Shaking too much to hold my bloody wand. And you don't know my flat, so we can't Apparate. We'll have to use the floo at the Leaky."

"Right."

Harry turned to lead the way, but a wave of sheer panic passed through Hermione, and she shouted to stop them just as Ron turned to follow.

"Wait!"

Harry glanced back, Ron's eyes already on her again from two steps away.

"I can't d-do that," she cried.

"Why not?" Harry asked, confused. "If you're worried about Jack, I've told him to-"

"No, no, I don't care about that. I just… I…"

She stared up at Ron, his face struck by deep shadows and strips of light from the pub windows and streetlamps at the end of the alley.

"I can't let you out of my sight," she whispered.

He gazed back at her with a look she hadn't seen since their last day together. Not from anyone. She felt like she was quite likely to throw up, simply from the enormity of the situation… and only alcohol churning in her stomach since lunch. How had she ever doubted what he felt for her, even before she had known? The way he looked at her… no one had ever looked at her that way, before or since. He still loved her. Right now.

Oh God, she loved him so much. She wanted to grab him right there, just keep holding on. But there was something else, some flickering hesitation she could see in him if she looked hard enough. Had it been too long for him? Had he been through too much?

They had to get inside before she broke down completely.

"How far is it?" Ron asked Harry in a low voice. "Can we walk?"

"Yeah, we can," Harry shrugged, glancing back at Hermione.

She couldn't speak again, but Harry motioned for them to follow toward the street. And she watched Ron hesitate long enough to walk beside her. Her legs felt like jelly, and walking suddenly seemed impossible for more than a few steps. But Harry was rushing them toward a busy cross street, glancing back.

"Hang on, what about a taxi?" he suggested, and Hermione nodded, clasping her coat tighter across her chest.

Harry had a car stopping in seconds, and they scooted into the back, Ron in the middle. She distantly registered Harry giving instructions to their driver, but she was completely overwhelmed by the sudden warmth and proximity of Ron's body.

She stared down at his leg pressed to hers through rapidly blurring vision as the world flashed by outside the windows, streetlamps and headlamps and a soft breeze blowing through hair and scarves of the people passing by on foot. It was as if all the lights in the world were suddenly turned on, and she felt everything again, things she hadn't even realised were gone. She didn't want to cry in the back of a taxi, but she was doing it, anyway. She felt him watching her, and she knew exactly what his expression would be without looking. His forehead would be creased with worry, and his eyes would be darting a bit, glancing over her face.

"S'okay," he whispered, but she felt his leg tense slightly. What did he think she was crying about? Of course it was okay, nothing had ever been more okay. He was home.

For several minutes, she stared down at his hand where it was resting on his thigh, his fingers spreading in a nervous sort of way that she recognised, quite incredibly. She studied the painfully familiar patterns of veins and freckles and bony curves of knuckles that had given her an excited sort of comfort for so many years. Her own hand was cold, and she couldn't take much more of this. But there was a dark pool of guilt, remorse, almost-shame… It was opening up inside her, but she wasn't ready to face it.

The car pulled slowly toward the kerb, and she lunged for the door as it was still rolling to a stop. The moment Ron was out and standing next to her, as Harry lingered to pay, she felt that desperation again, begging to let them forget seven and a half years and just hold on.

"Come on," Harry urged, before she could speak or move.

He led them inside his building, up the stairs, hands shaking as he unlocked the door. She felt quite selfishly panicked, craving to be alone with Ron, but knowing how big a shock it would be for his sister to see him now.

As Harry opened the door, Ginny stood quickly from the sofa. And her gaze landed on the three of them, face going several shades paler than usual as her mouth dropped open, eyes wide.

"No… bloody… way."

"Hey, Gin," he said scratchily, as Harry shut the door behind them.

"What! How?! I- I…" She stuttered for a word, finding nothing else.

"It's really him," Harry said, still sounding just as shaken as he had in the alley. "Someone faked his death and had him locked up, all this time."

"I'll explain everything," Ron filled in, and Ginny's eyes flooded with tears before she ran forward and grabbed his arms and pulled him down to hug him.

"Shit, you're real!"

The room was spinning, and Hermione's chest was aching, and, as Ron and Ginny finally pulled apart again, she caught his eyes instantly seeking hers, as they had done over and over already, since she'd first seen him.

"I know we've all got a lot of questions," she started, almost shrilly, "and- and it isn't fair for me to do this, but I'm doing it anyway. I need to be alone with him, just for a few minutes. Please."

"Yeah, I know you do," Harry said, smiling. "Go to our room. We'll wait here."

She tugged Ron's jacket sleeve, and he followed close behind her, through the door to Harry and Ginny's room. She slammed the door shut, and, before he could speak, she'd launched herself at him, arms around his neck, tears soaking his collar as she felt him tense and then immediately relax. His arms wrapped tightly around her waist, and this was _real_.

He was silently crying - she could feel him shaking. His body was so warm and solid and strong, and her coat was too restricting. She needed to get closer. But she had also lost the use of her legs. They stumbled slightly as he half-carried her to sit on the end of Harry and Ginny's bed, and she could hardly see from her own tears.

She let go of him just long enough to dry her eyes on her coat sleeves, hiccuping. His beautiful, perfect eyes blinked back at her, and she reached to hold onto his arm.

"How is this p-possible?!" she whispered, as he wiped his own eyes with the side of his hand. "We had a funeral! I was in St Mungo's for th-three weeks! Harry didn't speak to anyone for days! The man who killed you - no, that's not even right, anymore, is it! But he confessed! He's in Azkaban for life!"

Ron inhaled to reply, but another sob rippled up through her, and she covered her mouth with both hands, shaking her head.

"You were _dead_!" she cried, through her fingers. "I was n-never going to see you again!"

"I know, I'm so sorry, I-"

"No, don't say that again!" she cut over him, dropping her hands from her face, eyes darting, a million thoughts racing through her. "I don't know how you did it, how you survived, oh my God. And your wand! It's buried with-" Realisation struck her - they had buried a stranger. "Who was he?! Do you even have a wand right now? You _had_ to have got one, to escape, didn't you? Or did they _let_ you out? That's absurd, why would they? Why did they take you in the first place?!" Trembling, she finally paused long enough for Ron to speak.

"Do you want me to answer any of that?"

"Yes! But… nevermind right now. I don't know if I'm just having a very vivid dream, or if I've gone completely mad…"

"I know it's bloody mental, but it's _real_."

She let go of him again and wrapped her arms around her body, ribs aching from struggling against painful sobs, and she couldn't say anything more. Ron's eyes were silently watering as he kept looking at her, so much sadness in his expression, and she wanted to shake him, show him how things had been for her all this time, how much she had missed him. But there was that stab of awful shame again, because whatever she'd been through, he'd been through so, so much worse.

Guilt gnawed painfully at her stomach. She hadn't looked for him. For seven and a half years she'd cried and slept alone and _hadn't looked for him_. She lost her breath again, and she was _really_ going to throw up. He had _needed_ her, and she hadn't-

She lunged off the bed and darted for Harry's loo, collapsing to her knees in front of the toilet.

"Hermione?"

He rushed in behind her as she heaved and bent forward, and she found herself both wishing he didn't have to see her falling apart and silently begging him not to leave her here. She shoved her hair back with one hand, and then she felt him sit behind her on the floor. Still crying, she spat a few times into the toilet bowl and just breathed, trying to calm down.

* * *

The moment he'd seen her, in the pub, his heart had stopped. Felt so, anyway. It was like walking through a dream to see her again. Now, his heart was _racing_ , staring at her hunched back as she threw up. He wanted to touch her again. He wanted to help, but what could he do? He was the reason she was huddled on the floor, coming apart.

Very, very slowly, she lifted her head, kept her face turned away from him, and got to her feet. She slid past him to the sink, pouring a generous amount of Harry's Dentifricium Mouthwash into a small cup and thoroughly rinsing with it, turning on the taps and repeating several times with cups full of water.

He was just shifting on the floor to stand up when she turned the taps back off and leaned against the wall, collapsing to the floor beside him, knees tucked up to her chest. She was sitting awfully close, so he took his chance. Very tentatively, he draped his right arm around her shoulders, stomach twisted into a tight knot of nerves… made substantially worse when she started to cry again.

"M'sorry," he muttered, removing his arm from around her and tipping his head back against the wall.

" _P-Please,_ don't s-say that! And I know it's not f-fair, after all you've been through - I c-can't _imagine_. But seven and a half _years_ , Ron."

He was speechless once she'd said his name, until she spoke again.

"And… you don't know all that's happened, since then."

Of course he didn't. This was the truth he _had_ to hear. He'd known it for so long. Face it, get it over with, get out before it hurts too much to hide.

"I'm not that thick," he said roughly, eyes burning. "I know how long it's been. Hardly expected you to recognise me. You've got your own life. M'not trying to fuck it up. You _know_ I had to see you, but I can go-"

She turned sharply toward him, and her shaking hand flew over his mouth as his eyebrows shot up under his choppy fringe.

"Stop! Just… just stop!" she cried, glaring at him. "My _own life_? You have no idea!" Her voice broke, and she shook her head, eyes wide. "I need to tell you everything, but please… _please_ don't leave."

Her hand fell away from his face, and he couldn't take his eyes off hers. She looked so nervous, for reasons he suspected he could guess if he tried. He wasn't going to try.

"I didn't mean- shit." Of course he didn't _want_ to go. And he never wanted to hear her beg him to stay like that again. She never had to. "M'not leaving unless you need me to."

She nodded, and he'd half expected her to make some sort of joke, but then he was reminded again of how much had changed. This wasn't a normal Wednesday at Hogwarts, not even an angst-filled night in a tent in the middle of the woods, freezing and starving and wishing he could crawl into her bed with her and hold her… Alright, that last bit still applied, only their previously complicated relationship had just been blown off the charts.

"Are you going to the Burrow tonight?" she asked softly, and he winced.

"Is it terrible if I don't? It's just… a lot, seeing you… and Harry and Gin."

"Not terrible. But-"

There was a light knock on Harry's bedroom door, and Hermione got up off the loo floor, brushing her tangled hair back from her shoulders.

"Sorry, Harry! We're coming."

"No, no, it's fine, take your time," Harry's muffled voice called back. "Gin's just wondering what to say to her Mum."

"I should talk to her," Ron muttered to Hermione as he stood beside her.

He wanted to stay right there with her for as long as it took to sort things out. But _three_ people had just had their lives altered by his reappearance, and he was going to have to convince his sister to let him wait, just a little while longer, to tell anyone else.

"Let's go," Hermione said quietly, leading the way through the bedroom, to the door. When she opened it, Harry was still standing on the other side.

"Sorry," he said quickly, as Ron and Hermione emerged from his room. "Gin asked if you'd seen anyone else today, and I wasn't sure. She wants to floo your Mum."

Ginny suddenly appeared at the opposite end of the hall, ducking in from the sitting room.

"Don't," Ron requested, as he lead the way back out to join her. "I know I've got to see Mum and Dad and everybody else really soon, but this is…" He paused in the centre of the sitting room, feeling lost. "Look, I promise I'll do it, but… tomorrow, yeah? It's late, and I should go see them in person."

"Mum will hex me if she finds out I knew you were alive and we didn't tell her…" Ginny said apprehensively, but she didn't give Ron a chance to reply. "This is mad! Harry says he's sure you're really you, but… how the hell is this possible?!"

"Okay, let me explain," he said, nodding as he moved to a large arm chair, sitting down heavily as Ginny, Harry and Hermione took the sofa across from him.

He ran a hand through his hair, sorting out where to begin.

"Right. That Porkey didn't take us where it was meant to, obviously, and the tossers who took me were waiting for us when we arrived. They stunned us both and dragged me away, and I could see… Hermione, on the ground, 'til we went down this slope and-"

"I chased after you, as soon as I could move," Hermione interjected, tucking her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms protectively around them.

"I heard you screaming," he nodded, swallowing, "and- and I just _had_ to get back to you. I didn't know what the hell they wanted, just that I couldn't see you anymore, so… I couldn't really speak or move, and I wasn't even completely sure it was me who'd done it, but… I just kept thinking 'Stupefy,' and I reckon I stunned one of them."

Hermione let go of her legs and straightened up, eyes wide.

"Did you _really_?! That's _incredible-_ "

"Tone."

She blinked at him for a moment, but he managed the tiniest lopsided grin and watched as her expression softened. He nearly expected her to roll her eyes.

But he was getting too distracted, so he lightly cleared his throat and looked away.

"Anyway… They hit me on the back of the head with a rock or something, and I blacked out. Woke up again six bloody years later."

"What!" Harry's eyebrows flew up under his fringe.

"Yeah. Reckon that's a fucking miracle, but apparently there's some way to suspend a person in time or some rubbish. One of them worked at St Mungo's and knew how to keep me alive without brain damage."

"Wonder if that's why you don't look seven and a half years _older…_ " Harry considered.

"Don't I?"

"No," Hermione said quickly. "You're a bit thinner, maybe, a bit taller, and- and your hair's longer, but-"

She cut herself off and held onto her knees again, and he felt his stomach twist in a not-entirely-uncomfortable way to know how aware she was of his appearance…

"Go on," Ginny encouraged in a hoarse voice. "What happened next?"

"Well, they had me in this metal room with no windows, only one door… Couldn't see a lock on the bloody thing, so I didn't know how they were getting in and out. They'd always come by three at a time, maybe 'cause they were a bit wary of me, but I'd had a wand in my pocket when I'd stunned the bloke in the woods. So…"

He paused to take a breath, rubbing his freshly shaven jaw.

"Wasn't too long before I found out why they wanted me."

He pushed up the left sleeve of his jacket and indicated his scars.

"Bloody brains got someone else, too," he explained. "This girl… her father worked for the Department of Mysteries, and she was with him at work one day, got away from him, and wound up with a scar over the back of her head. Her father was in with the bastards who took me, and they stole a chest of gold from the Department of Mysteries that could apparently reproduce itself or some rubbish. He was supposed to share it, but his daughter convinced him to keep it, so they buried it and went on the run. Next night, he felt guilty and wanted to give it up, so… she killed him in his sleep."

"Damn. How old was she?" Harry asked.

"Six when she killed him," Ron said, wincing. "Yeah, brutal."

"How did you find all this out?" Hermione asked in a dazed voice.

"Right, I'm getting to that part…" He pushed his jacket sleeve back down to his wrist and cleared his throat again. "They'd been hunting for anyone else who had these scars, because they were convinced whoever had them could read Evelyn's mind. That's the girl's name…"

"That's how those brains worked?" Hermione asked, interest piqued by this piece of possibly important magical fact. Ron's lips twitched as she sat up straighter again, pupils shining in lantern light.

"Reckon so, 'cause I didn't believe it at first… but then, yeah… I could actually do it."

"You read her mind?" Ginny clarified, amazed.

"Yeah. It was… bloody bizarre. And I don't think she even knew what I was seeing, exactly."

"How's it work? What's it feel like?" Hermione asked with unrestrained curiosity.

"A bit like a Pensieve, maybe… Only I'd see things out of sequence, so I'd have to try a couple times to sort them out. But all they wanted was to know where that damn gold was hidden. I found out pretty quick, but I had to keep stringing them along 'til I'd made a plan to escape. Otherwise they'd have left me there to die, or come back to kill me once they had it."

"Why not use Veritaserum on this girl?" Harry asked.

"They did, but she could resist it."

"What if you lied about where the gold was?" Hermione suggested, as if he was still coming up with the plan of escape that very moment. "Once they figured out you tricked them, they'd come back, but they probably wouldn't kill you on purpose if they still wanted the information that badly."

"Yeah," he smiled. "You're brilliant. Took me quite a while to come up with that."

"That's what you did?" Harry asked.

"Yeah. Had to practise alone, trying out different spells. Started with simple ones, then worked up to a list I thought I could actually use to get out."

"Hang on," Harry started. "You're saying you were able to do wandless magic again, like you did in the woods?"

"Here," he suggested, standing up and glancing through the doorway that led to the kitchen. "I'll show you."

 _Accio cup._

A glass zoomed from the kitchen table to Ron's outstretched hand. Hermione sucked in a sharp breath, and Harry just blinked at him, stunned.

"It's really not that impressive," Ron shrugged, placing the glass on the coffee table.

"Not that impressive?!" Hermione's jaw was hanging open as she stared, wide-eyed. A shy grin twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Oh my God. You escaped with wandless, nonverbal magic?!"

"Do something else!" Harry insisted.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. What can you do?"

"Knock you out, bind you in ropes…" he teased, and Harry laughed. "Oh, wait. Got one."

He fixed his eyes on Harry's pocket.

 _Expelliarmus._

Harry's wand flew out and across the room, just as Ron reached up to snatch it from midair.

"Shit!" Ginny gawked at him, and Harry shook his head slowly, thoroughly impressed.

"Honestly wasn't sure that would work, just now," he admitted, twirling Harry's wand between his fingers. "I had to practise with Accio, before I got out, which isn't the same, obviously. And I reckoned it was a bloody miracle Expelliarmus worked yesterday."

He heard Hermione's sharp intake of breath before he realised what he'd said.

"What do you mean… _yesterday_?" she asked, shakily.

His cheeks and neck warmed considerably. He'd somehow managed not to think what her reaction was going to be to this…

"Okay, look…" he started, panicking slightly. He'd been with her less than an hour, and he was already fucking up. "I had to go right to the Ministry, yeah? I stole three wands when I got out, used one to Apparate, and I knew the Aurors could figure out where I'd been by examining that wand. Harry wasn't there-"

"I was on a raid," Harry said, shaking his head. "Damn…"

"Yeah, and I needed to make sure they were caught. Aurors got all six of them… and the kid."

"Ron, I work at the Ministry, too!" Hermione shouted, voice cracking as her volume increased.

"I know."

She simply blinked at him, speechless for a moment.

"I asked about you, _obviously_ ," he explained. "But… Hermione, I was fucked up. Been wearing the same grotty clothes for seven and a half years, hadn't taken a damn shower or shaved-"

"I take it back," she interrupted, shrilly, and she stood up to face him properly, half a metre away, hugging her arms across her chest. "You _can_ say sorry now!"

"I _am_ sorry!" he shouted back, and this all suddenly felt achingly familiar. "But I couldn't do it, alright? I was fucking terrified to see you. Still was tonight, but I'd never planned to wait that long. I fell asleep at St Mungo's last night and didn't wake up again til about an hour before I found you at the pub."

"Why couldn't you have at _least_ sent an owl, _anything_?!" she cried. "I would have come to St Mungo's, or waited with you in the Auror offices, or-"

"But it was bad enough imagining what would've changed between us since they took me, yeah?" he interrupted. "I didn't want you to see me like that, on top of everything else."

"Ron, are you ready for this to happen again with Mum tomorrow?" Ginny interjected, from where she was still sitting on the sofa next to Harry.

"I know I'm being a selfish git," he sighed, "but I don't want to see anyone else before I've… dunno, sorted things out."

The _things_ in question really boiled down to one thing - if there was a chance in hell that Hermione could take him back. He recalled the bloke from the pub, but she'd dismissed him so easily. Who was he to her? And what she'd said in the loo echoed in his mind as well.

 _You don't know all that's happened, since then._

He needed to know, and then… then he could face everyone else and try to cope.

"I'd do the same thing, Gin, in his position," Harry said, and Ron felt a wave of gratitude for his best mate's support. "Imagine how overwhelming it is for him to have missed so much time…"

When he looked back toward Hermione again, fresh tears were coating her face, but she didn't seem ready to hex him, at least. That didn't make him feel much better. In fact, he reckoned it made him feel a bit worse. Hexes would be _something_. But watching her silently crying, so close to him, unsure if he could or even _should_ try to comfort her…

He was suddenly furious again, imagining the worst outcome and what had been taken away from him. But all he felt toward her was aching sadness and guilt. It wasn't her fault. Whatever she had done, she had thought he was dead… He had to hide, just long enough to cover what he felt under a thin layer of strength, at least.

"Gotta use your loo, Harry," he said in a scratchy voice.

"Go on."

"Cheers."

* * *

She was pacing outside the loo door like a lunatic.

For a moment, she'd actually felt angry, for the way he'd obviously forgotten her words outside the pub. The thought of losing sight of him had almost literally given her a panic attack. But she also knew how irrational this was. She couldn't follow him into the bloody loo…

A whole day. He'd waited more than twenty-four hours to tell her he was alive, assuming her suspicion was correct, that he'd been the wizard Dawn had told her about, running like a madman through the Atrium… If she'd just gone to the Auror offices to see for herself.

She roughly wiped her eyes and glared at the closed door.

But how angry could she really be? She was still shaking from the shock of seeing him. How must he be feeling, after everything he'd been through? And did it really matter, anyway? She was terrified to talk to him about those years he had missed. But, if he still loved her, after all that had happened-

Ron suddenly opened the door and jumped slightly, startled to see her standing so close.

"Sorry, did you need-" and he gestured into the loo behind him.

"No," she said quickly, mildly embarrassed of her reason for being here. "If I can't see you, it feels like… it could all still be a dream."

"M'sorry, I wasn't even-" but he cut himself off and swallowed. "I just needed a minute."

"You waited more than a day," she said abruptly, surprised by the evenness of her own tone.

"I'm sorry," he said again, softly.

But she found herself empathising with a bit of what Harry had expressed, and she looked down at the floor between them before she spoke again.

"Maybe… maybe I understand…" Her voice seemed soft and muffled to her own ears. "I know this isn't easy."

She winced at her severe understatement, but he didn't seem at all bothered as she glanced back up at his face. _Ron's face_. Her eyes were instantly swimming with tears again.

"I didn't know what to expect," he started, shaking his head slowly. "How could I know what might've happened since…" He broke off again and sighed. "You're not wearing a ring."

She blinked at him, confused for a moment, but a rush of tears had spilled from her eyes, tears she thought he must be misinterpreting by the way his hands were shaking even harder than before.

But then it occurred to her. _A ring_. Did he think-

"I'm not with anyone else."

His lips parted just slightly, and she knew him well enough to see the tension leave his face as he stared down at her.

"Really?" His voice was so soft and tentative that she almost couldn't hear him.

"Really," she repeated, but she felt nauseous as she considered her next words. "But… there's a lot we need to talk about."

"It's okay," he sighed, smiling slightly.

"I really hope so."

Her fearful words may have caused his relieved expression to waver, but he licked his bottom lip and kept gazing down at her, and did they really need to still be here now?

"Where are you staying, tonight?"

"Dunno. Thought Harry and Ginny might let me sleep on the sofa-"

"Come home with me."

She had stunned him speechless for several seconds, and she was too aware of her heart hammering away inside her chest as she waited for his reply.

"Are you sure…" He paused to clear his throat, and she didn't wait for him to say more.

"Please. If you stay here, I can't go home anyway."

He was too silent for too long, and then he rubbed his hand across his jaw, laughing lightly.

"I think I really convinced myself not to have any hope… that you'd be-" He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Yeah, 'course I'll go home with you."

Her mind was jumping through so many things, so fast. Whatever he had feared, could it possibly be worse than what she'd done? But there was really nothing holding them back from being together again… nothing aside from those years and years apart. Years that seemed insignificant in so many ways, as if she'd been asleep through most of it.

Insignificant. Except for the way her stomach twisted at the thought of saying the words aloud, that she'd been with other people. She wished more than almost anything else she had ever wished before that they could just skip that part, forget the past. But she knew she couldn't do that to him.

"Could we go _now_?" she asked. "We need to talk, and it'll be easier if we're… alone."

She almost choked on the word, flashing back to the last time they'd held themselves back because of that very same promise. Alone. It hadn't happened that way before, and an irrational part of her feared it never would.

"Yeah," he said scratchily. "Let's go."

* * *

He followed her back out to the sitting room, to say goodbye to Harry and Ginny, and he felt numb in a dazed sort of way. He was still too apprehensive to be relieved, but he could hardly believe what she'd asked him.

Alone. There was no one waiting for her at home. She lived alone.

"Uh, we're gonna go to Hermione's," he said to Harry, catching Ginny's watery eyes and small grin as Harry nodded.

"Would you try to catch Mum and Dad at the Burrow tomorrow morning, before he leaves for work?" Ginny asked.

"Yeah, alright," Ron agreed, nervous tension spreading through him as he imagined what his parents might say.

"I really just-" Harry started, sniffing, "can't believe you're here, mate." He stepped forward and tugged Ron into a firm hug again. "C'mere, Hermione," he muttered against Ron's shirt, and she stepped up next to them, hauled into the hug by Harry's left arm, trapped against the side of Ron's body.

Ron felt her shaking almost immediately, her hot breath against his chest as she began to cry again. He couldn't see her face, all bushy hair and Harry's glasses awkwardly smooshed against his neck. But he'd never felt more complete.

He gripped the back of Hermione's coat and closed his eyes.

"Ginny," Harry called out, and she was suddenly there, too, holding onto Ron's arm and resting her cheek against Harry's shoulder.

It must have been several minutes before anyone moved away, and even as Harry cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses and Ginny let go of him and wiped her eyes, Hermione kept her face pressed to Ron's shirt, her right hand having found its way up the back of his jacket.

Harry glanced at Hermione somewhat sceptically.

"Maybe you shouldn't Apparate. You could use our floo-"

"Nah," Ron spoke for her, knowing she would still feel uncomfortable about separating, "we can walk or… take another taxi, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure. It's not too far," Harry answered, as Hermione took an unsteady breath and finally lifted her head from Ron's chest. Her face was wet and her eyes were red, and she grimaced slightly as she let go of him and wiped her cheeks with both hands.

"Sorry," she said in a hoarse voice, and he couldn't quite follow what she was apologising for until she touched the wet spot her tears had left on his shirt.

He shook his head and took her hand, feeling brave for a moment.

"Ready?"

She nodded and let him lead her to the door.

"See you tomorrow?" Ron called back to Harry and Ginny.

"Can't believe you can say that," Harry laughed, and Ron smiled back before they crossed out onto the landing and down the stairs.

* * *

The moment they stepped outside, she felt underdressed. During the time they'd been talking in Harry's flat, the temperature had dropped, and an icy breeze blew down the street.

"Taxi?" Ron suggested, and she nodded, letting go of his hand to walk briskly to the next street corner where traffic was busier.

One part of her brain was focused on spotting a car, while another was frantically rehearsing what she would say to him when they got back to her flat. What if he couldn't do it? What if it was too much to get over? It wouldn't be his fault. And yes, she was aware that he had come back to her knowing full well that things might be too different to ever go back. They weren't, of course, for her. They never could have been. There was no one in this world for her but him.

But this should have given her optimism for how he would react. It didn't, but it should've.

A taxi pulled to the kerb as Ron stood next to her with his hands in his pockets, and she tucked a knot of her hair behind her ear, unsuccessfully. They climbed into the back, sitting as close as they had done before, even though there was no need now that Harry wasn't with them.

She heard her own voice give her address to their driver, but it was such an automatic response, and she was almost completely focused on everything else, at the same time. The car began to move, and Ron glanced over at her, licking his slightly chapped bottom lip.

She was really with him now, staring back at his beautiful face, inches from hers.

Waves of disbelief still crashed against her.

It didn't actually matter, just then, that she had so very many words to say. It didn't matter to her… and she was almost certain it didn't matter to him, either. His eyes were a perfect, crystal blue in the passing light from the streetlamps outside, feather lashes the colour of quill tips, freckles like copper clusters of stars on dark nights in the country, where the sky revealed so many layers you couldn't see here with the city lights.

He seemed to be studying her face, too, finding what had changed, or maybe just remembering something he'd seen nearly every day for so many years, before he'd gone. His lips parted slightly, and she felt that indescribable connection that had fueled fiery rows, peppered her dreams with his voice since she was thirteen, made every touch feel charged with a small release of massively restrained longing.

His hand brushed her coat pocket, fingertips against the spot where her wand was hidden… and, all of a sudden, it was snowing.

"Look at that," their driver announced, slowing down a bit as large, fluffy flakes drifted silently against the windows.

She forgot why she was afraid. She forgot seven and a half years and stared back into his eyes, as if she'd been doing it every day for half her life. His hand moved away from her coat, and she was curious to see if the snow would stop. Not curious enough to look away from him.

He reached up instead, sliding his fingers along her neck, through tangles of her hair. And, for just a moment longer, there was nothing wrong, nothing she had to confess. Never had been. It was all right here.

She leaned closer, breathing erratically through parted lips, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that version of his smile that told her he was nervous in that wonderful way that made them both want to rush toward it. So, she did.

She reached up to hold onto his jacket collar, tilted her head, and kissed him.


	11. 7 Years, 6 Months, 4 Days: Part 2

_**A/N:** It's Friday night. It's a holiday weekend. I'm posting fic... First of all, this chapter was almost gonna be a record breaker, well over 10K words, and then I found a breaking point for it, so don't be concerned that this might be the end of their night, because it is definitely not :) Second, **this chapter is a HARD M.** Also, I did an experimental thing with the perspective (Ron's head vs Hermione's head) breaks in this one, so I hope that works for you._

 _Once again, I haven't had a chance to reply to all the wonderful reviews I got for the last update, but just know that I love and appreciate them all SO MUCH, and I'll get back to you all as soon as I can. I really can't tell you how much it means to me and how happy I am that you are enjoying this fic with me! xx_

 _Right, here we go. See you again next week (hopefully)!_

* * *

 **CHAPTER ELEVEN:  
7 Years, 6 Months, 4 Days  
** **Wednesday, 16 November, 2005: Part 2**

In all his constantly cycling memories of kissing Hermione, he must have forgotten exactly how incredible it was, because he was drowning. His left hand was lost in her hair, and he could feel her whimpering against his mouth as he parted his lips, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He didn't know what he'd been expecting when he'd climbed into the backseat with her and sat so close, unable to take his eyes off her, but this was certainly not it.

This was infinitely better.

Her lips were so soft and warm, a little bit salty from her tears, and her teeth scraped gently against his upper lip. Her knuckles brushed his neck as she kept holding on so tightly to his jacket collar, and he seemed to have entirely forgotten time and place, exactly as they had done in the middle of the war…

The ride to her flat was much too short, and, by the time he pulled back just enough to breathe, their taxi was moving slowly up to the kerb to let them out. He didn't know what he could see, exactly, as he stared into her eyes, but her cheeks flushed brilliantly as she gazed back at him, breathing between parted, slightly swollen lips.

"This is it, innit?" their driver asked, when they didn't move.

She finally let go of his jacket and paid, gently pushing him to slide out as she followed, and he felt lightheaded as the car door slammed shut, hurrying behind her to the glass doors of a tall, stone building. He recognised the anxious way she was moving, eyes darting sideways to be sure he was with her as she rushed inside. He followed her up three flights of stairs and down a short hallway, to the last door on the right. She fumbled in her coat pocket for her key, turned it in the lock, and paused.

"Oh, um… I'm sorry. It's a bit of a mess," she winced, embarrassed, hand resting on the door knob.

"Obviously doesn't bother me," he said, smiling, and she opened the door.

The dark room they entered contained a small sofa with several jumpers and a blanket scattered across it, a coffee table absolutely packed to the edges with books and parchment, and a full wall of bookshelves, stuffed beyond capacity.

It was possibly the most endearing sight he had ever seen. If someone had dropped him into this very room, with no context, he'd have sworn it was hers.

As Hermione flicked her wand toward the fireplace to light it, a cat meowed expectantly and darted out from the kitchen to the right.

"Crookshanks?!"

Ron had never been particularly glad to see the little bugger before, but everything seemed to warm him now with a sense of familiar comfort. Somewhat surprisingly, Crookshanks appeared to recognise him. If cats could glare, that's exactly what he was doing. Then, as if he'd warily accepted his fate for the moment, he brushed by Ron's leg and stared up at Hermione.

"Did you miss him, too?" Hermione asked, smiling down at Crookshanks.

"No way," Ron laughed. "He's plotting how to get rid of me again already."

Her expression changed immediately, smile melting away and eyes glistening in the flickering firelight. He swallowed and cleared his throat, thinking he ought to say something more but not having a bloody clue what…

"Do you want, um, tea or something?" she asked in a small voice.

"M'fine."

He immediately realised she was probably looking for something to do to avoid the conversation they were meant to have, just for a little while longer. Part of him understood and maybe didn't want to talk at all, sod it. But he also wanted it over as soon as possible, rip off the plaster and figure out what was next.

"Well," she started, moving to the sofa, "come sit down," and she gathered the jumpers and blanket from the cushions, tossing them to one end and sitting close to the centre. He sat close beside her, on her left, not quite touching.

She shifted around for a moment, sniffed, and tugged off her coat, draping it over the sofa arm with her jumpers.

"I don't know where to start," she sighed softly, attempting to tuck a massively tangled twist of hair behind her ear.

"I didn't, either," he said, hoping this was helpful to hear. "Just started talking 'til I reckoned I'd covered most of it…"

As he often did, he wished he knew what she was thinking. If she was afraid of scaring him away, he could rather confidently assure her that he wasn't going anywhere. But, if she felt personally conflicted about their relationship now… Well. This was the bit that really made him nauseous.

He reminded himself that _she_ had kissed _him_. Didn't exactly set him at ease, but he could cling to it for a while, at least until she'd had a chance to explain.

"I should tell you what happened with my parents, first," she said, licking her lips. "I didn't go to Australia until Christmas. It took a couple of weeks to find them, and once I'd sorted their memories, they really didn't want to come back to London. They had a new life there, so… they kept it. I see them once or twice a year now."

"You went alone?" he asked sadly, and she nodded.

"It's alright. Harry and Ginny offered to go, but…" she trailed off, shrugging. "And Professor McGonagall offered me a spot at Hogwarts, but I wound up taking some private lessons the next year, instead. I took my N.E.W.T.S. and got a job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, which is where I am now, though the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has made a few offers, so…"

She looked sideways at him, and he smiled, relieved to see that at least some things were how he had imagined them, so long ago. Not everything had changed… Maybe that list was longer than he'd assumed.

"Harry and Ginny got married last summer, on his birthday. And Neville's teaching Herbology at Hogwarts, isn't that nice?" She was rambling now, but at least she was still looking at him. "I'm really happy for him. He's doing well. Luna's engaged, and she's been traveling a lot, but she sends us owls every few months. Oh, and you'll have to see Teddy. He's so ready to go to Hogwarts, even though he's only seven."

"Reckon you would've been, too," he said, still smiling, "if you'd known about it then."

She nodded, clearly distracted from fully focusing on the story she was telling.

"Um, what else?" She paused and lightly cleared her throat. "Your brothers are doing well, but… I should let them tell you about that when you see them."

His stomach twisted slightly, imagining a flood of reintroductions to every one of his family members.

"I don't know what else…" she said quietly, eyes darting slightly as she looked away again, to face the fire in front of them. "Oh, God… _Please_ , just don't-" She broke off and shook her head.

"What?" He felt his heart rate increase, anticipating.

"Nothing, nothing." She sucked in a quick breath. "You should be honest with me."

He tried, for a silent moment, to sort it out, wondering yet again which outcome she was most fearful of reaching. For the millionth time in their history together, he wished he had the confidence to ask… and that she had the confidence to directly tell him what she held back.

"Honest about-"

"How you feel about what I'm going to tell you now," she clarified quickly.

Right. It was going to hurt. It was clear from the anguish deep in the lines of her face. He wanted to fix it, make it easier for her, but he couldn't. Whatever she said, it was going to cut him. It wasn't her fault. Of course it wasn't. But he could hardly breathe imagining another bloke holding her hand, much less-

He wasn't exactly in the most amazing position to comfort her, considering what he dreaded she would confess, but he looked down at her hand, trembling on her thigh, and he took it in his to replace the idea of someone else, distracting himself for a moment by brushing his thumb over hers. It seemed to give her enough courage to start.

"Three people," she said in a tiny voice, and he swallowed but remained speechless, waiting. "I've been with three p-people, but it was almost six years before I…"

She wouldn't look at his face, staring at their joined hands instead, as if seeing them together was the only way she could find the words to press on.

"I met the first about a year and a half ago. We saw each other fairly often for a bit. It didn't last very long, but-" Her bottom lip quivered, and, all of a sudden, fat tears rolled silently down her cheeks, and she shook her head. "I slept with him."

He closed his eyes, focusing on her hand in his, drawing back from her words. He could feel her, she was there with him, he'd made it back to her. That was the most important thing, the thing that had felt impossible on so many cold nights, in so much pain. The rest… should be details. He had known how likely this was. And he reminded himself of her words at Harry's earlier.

 _I'm not with anyone else._

So, it was over now? There was still a chance that-

"I didn't think I'd _ever_ do that, with- with anyone else… And I _hated_ myself." He could feel her hand trembling, and he opened his eyes again. "I'm so… so sorry."

He wanted to tell her it was alright, but his throat was dry and the words wouldn't form. And maybe it wasn't alright, in a lot of complicated ways, but he couldn't sort them out just yet. She wiped her eyes with her free hand and sighed shakily.

"Then, earlier this year, Ginny introduced me to someone she knew through Quidditch," she said, voice hollow and almost monotone. "We were together for a couple of months, but we split in August, after Harry and Ginny's wedding."

Her hair had fallen forward, over her shoulders, partly obscuring her face as she closed her eyes.

"And there's one more thing."

 _Three_.

"Ron… I didn't know what was happening to me," she cried, slowly opening her eyes and staring forward at the fire. "I felt so- _so_ lonely and out of control. All I had was my work, and Harry and Ginny, but they had each other, you know? I… I did something, on Halloween… The man you saw at the pub tonight, who was looking for me… I went home with him the night I met him. It didn't mean _anything_. God…"

She stopped speaking, ignoring the fresh tears streaming down her face, even as they splashed off her jaw and rolled across the back of his hand, and he finally let everything sink in.

He was suddenly restless, so he let go of her to stand up, pacing slowly in front of the sofa. He felt her eyes dart up to watch him before quickly looking away again, staring down at her hands, now clasped together in her lap. Unwanted visions tried to form, but he forced them away. He could too easily imagine her in a stranger's bed… but he wanted to be stronger than he thought he probably was. He wanted to forget it, tell her it didn't matter, as long as she still wanted him now.

It was _true_. But how could he fight aching disappointment unless he faced it?

His eyes were burning, and he discovered that the most prominent thing he _really_ felt was a deep, hollow rage. It wasn't really the physical pain he'd experienced, the starvation, the fear of the ones who had held him prisoner. It was _this_. They had taken his life from him.

He'd snatched two books from the closest towering stack atop her coffee table before he'd realised he'd sent the signal from brain to hand to do it. He turned his back toward her and threw them against the wall as she gasped, and the impact cut a jagged hole through plaster before falling to the floor.

He stared at what he'd done until his eyes blurred out of focus, breathing unevenly through parted lips. Everything shifted, and his anger faded away. It was just him, and her, and she was crying, and he was standing in the middle of her flat, staring at a hole in the wall.

"Hermione… I'm sorry," he said quietly, ashamed.

He could hear her breathing raggedly, a squeaky whimper of acknowledgement, and then he turned back to face her, neck burning, shoving both hands through his hair.

"I'll fix the wall," he said in a strangled voice, but she merely shook her head slowly, eyes locked blankly on the fire, behind him.

She looked so small, just then, red cheeks and bloodshot eyes and parted lips. Her tornado of hair was twisted in all directions, flying away from her face, coiling over her shoulders to brush her lap, longer than he'd ever seen it. And her sleeves were half covering her hands. Her thin fingers, usually worrying wool jumper cuffs when she was anxious, were quite shockingly still now.

It was painful, possibly worse than he'd prepared for, because he'd never known how to prepare, but the blame was all on the ones who had taken him away from her. But there was the truth. What she'd told him… it changed nothing about how he felt. It never could've. She was the most beautiful person he had ever seen, in all definitions of the word. He loved her far more than his own life.

"I was so selfish, and I'm sorry," she whispered dully. "I think I _had_ to kiss you, in the car, in case it was the last time…"

He shook his head, but she wasn't watching him, lowering her gaze to the rug at her feet.

"I'm sorry," he barely heard her breathe again.

None of this bollocks mattered. If she told him, right then, that she still wanted him… So, he had to ask the only thing the really made a difference.

"Do you… want to be together again?"

Her sobs echoed in the small room, and she was half-laughing, half-crying, wiping her face on her jumper sleeves.

"That's th-the most r-ridiculous question you've ever a-asked me!"

He stared at her, willing her to look up at him, and he was still quite surprised when she actually did it. His chest was aching, and he hadn't realised his hands were clenched into shaking fists until her eyes met his.

"I would do anything… to be with you," she whispered.

"Bloody hell, you…" He covered his mouth with his hand, rubbed it across his jaw. _Anything_. "Sod it. We don't need to talk about this anymore."

Stunned, she blinked up at him.

"What?"

"What else is there to say? We're both here, and we want the same thing."

His heart was absolutely pounding again, only, this time, it was with consuming relief, anticipation. Because he knew what came next now. He could question his luck, wonder how the hell it was possible that the most amazing woman in the world was actually single _and_ wanted to be with him. Or… he could kiss her again.

"You're r-really alright with this?!" Her eyes were so wide and glistening with firelight.

His sigh of affirmation came out as a breathy laugh, and he thought it was easier to answer with actions, anyway. He took two steps and knelt on the floor in front of her, and she was watching him so closely. Her eyes darted between his, and she reached for his arm, lightly holding onto his sleeve as she parted her knees and he moved forward, on his own knees, between them. Her hand slid down to his, fingers clasping together.

"Wait," he nearly whispered, more to himself, he thought, than to her. He was inches away from her face. "Can I tell you something first? You really don't have to say it back. Fuck. I… I love you."

She gripped his hand so tight, he almost winced.

"I love you s-so much," she cried. "Never stopped for a second. I can't believe you're really here…"

He was entirely too overwhelmed to wait another moment. So, he reached up, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. As always, it was somehow even better than before. It was madness, actually, that he'd come back to this, that their lives had stayed so intricately linked together that, even after so much time, everything felt exactly correct, like slowly waking from a nightmare, blinking in the darkness to find her reassuring presence.

He had expected complicated, maybe giving her some space to adjust, best case. Worst, he'd have to learn to live without her. Instead… her fingers were twisting in his hair, and her tongue was in his mouth, and his hands were moving down from her face to skim the sides of her body, landing on her hips as she arched closer to his chest. She looped her arms around his neck and drew him further between her legs, completely aligning their upper bodies, and his hands moved up inside her jumper, spreading across her back, over her thin vest. Her body was so enticingly warm, and his pulse was throbbing in his ears as he moaned against her mouth.

Quite suddenly, she pushed him away, and he was too dazed to comprehend what was happening until she was standing and tugging his hand. He stood with her and let her lead him, but she turned back to face him, halfway down the short hall to what he guessed was her bedroom. She reached up to grip his neck as she pushed up to her toes, crushing her mouth with his in a sloppy kiss. Her free hand shoved his jacket off his shoulder, and they broke apart again as he helped her shed it completely, dropping it to the floor behind him. Her hands moved immediately up the inside of the front of his shirt, and he groaned with the sudden impact of so much skin contact.

He recalled her small, beautiful voice, years and years ago, asking him to take off his shirt. There had been lines to cross that felt scary and new and exciting, but this was different, now. They seemed to have lost all the barriers of shy tentativeness they'd had before, and they half stumbled backward, as she tried to keep kissing him, while still leading him to her room.

Was he supposed to wait for something? Were they meant to sort out some hazy list of thoughts between them since they'd last been together? Was he supposed to care?

He didn't want to think it, but it was there, regardless. What would this be like for her, compared to those other times? What would he be like, compared to-

* * *

Every other physical thing she'd ever done with another person felt utterly worthless compared to a single touch from him. She should have known he'd still feel the same way, no matter what. But so much time apart must have clouded what this was like, how consumed they were by each other. How much he loved her.

"Wait," he muttered against her mouth, as she gripped the door frame, backing them into her room.

"Hmm?" She looked up into his eyes, out of focus, so close.

"You sure you aren't just-" She watched him swallow. "-rushing into this because you-"

"Rushing?!" Her eyes widened, and his cheeks flushed. "The first time I thought about taking your clothes off was almost a decade ago."

He pressed his lips together, slowly grinning.

"Right," he muttered, following her further into the room.

He was distracted, for a moment, by glancing around, and she felt strangely self-conscious about the piles of books on the floor by her bed, the ink stains on her pillowcase, and the broken wardrobe door that was hanging open a few inches.

"I only meant-" he continued, and she took a second to rewind back to the conversation he'd begun. "Nevermind."

"You're worried it's just that you're back, and it's… a lot…" she said softly, realising she was shaking again, "and maybe I'm not thinking it through, but that's ridiculous."

"Something like that," he muttered. "I just… I know what this means to me, and I wanted you to be sure… But, honestly, I'd probably do it anyway, even if it was… just tonight."

"It's not," she said firmly, staring up at him, standing at the foot of her bed, in the dark. "Didn't you hear me? _I love you_."

"I know, I know," he smiled, running a hand through his hair again.

They were momentarily stuck, until she thought of something that might make a difference to him. It certainly had to her.

"I've never… had anyone over here before. I always went to their flats, instead…"

He watched her closely for a moment, and she could feel his question before he asked it.

"Why?"

"Because they weren't you."

He stared back at her in shaky silence before swallowing and briefly nodding, almost to himself, and she was sure his eyes were suddenly quite a bit more reflective than they had been, moments before. He seemed to be avoiding blinking, actually. The idea of him crying with relief because she still loved him so much made her own chest clench tight. But he didn't wait anymore, tangling three fingers in her hair as he ducked to kiss her, and she was completely distracted again by his soft lips and warm body, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Like waves on sand, it kept reoccurring to her that this was real. There had been low nights, through the years, when she'd helped herself fall asleep by pretending he was there with her. She'd even spoken to him, in her empty room, or clenched her blanket in her fist and closed her eyes, imagining she was holding his hand. But, of course, she'd never felt the warmth of his living body, the exact timbre of his strong voice in her ear.

He dragged his mouth from her lips to her jaw, down the side of her neck, breathing unevenly against her skin. His left hand was playing with the hem of her jumper, and she let go of his neck to lift her arms over her head, recalling the way she'd done this before, and she thought he must be remembering, too, as he stopped kissing her neck and smiled down at her. He gathered her jumper and vest together, gently tugging them up her sides and over her head, dropping them to the floor.

She felt her temperature rise at he looked at her, standing a bit too close to see properly, in the dark. But then she gripped his shirt in both hands and pulled him down with her as she sat on the end of her bed and crawled backward, further up. His hands pressed shakily to the mattress on either side of her body, and she realised-

"Wait."

He froze as she shifted her legs under him to toe off her shoes, and they thudded to the floor. He laughed with her as he realised what she was doing, and he pushed backward to stand again and toe off his trainers, too. She scooted up to the top of her bed as she watched him, mesmerised when he climbed in again and crawled all the way up her body, hovering over her. His black shirt and jeans in contrast with his pale skin was having quite an overwhelming effect on her. Each breath caught between her parted lips as his fringe fell choppily into his eyes, and he dipped his head to kiss her neck again.

At first, his upper body wasn't quite touching hers, but then the cotton of his shirt tickled her bare stomach, and his hair brushed across her jaw and cheek, and his right knee pressed between her legs, and she was suddenly crying again. Once he could feel it, he lifted his head quickly away from her, inhaling to say something, but she grabbed his face in both hands and shook her head.

She was trying to gather the words to explain to him, but, as he stared down at her, she could feel him understanding.

"Yeah. I know," he said in a low, raspy voice. He pressed his lips to hers, a slow, soft kiss, and she relaxed into the mattress, working one hand up the back of his shirt.

When he pulled his mouth gently away again, she bent her left knee up by his hip and tipped her chin back, nails lightly scratching his bare back beneath his shirt. She felt him tremble and softly moan as his gaze flickered down to her chest. But he reached up first, swiped his thumb across her cheek to dry it, tugged his lips up into a nervous, crooked smile… and ducked, attaching his mouth to her collarbone.

She gasped as her hands dropped out of his shirt, weaving into his hair instead. Almost immediately, she moved them again, feathering across his shoulders, wanting to touch every bit of him at once as he dragged his open mouth across her skin, down the centre of her chest.

He muttered something she couldn't understand, and she hummed a vague question back. He sat halfway up between her legs and blushed.

"Your skin's so bloody soft," he mumbled, more clearly this time, and his fingertips painted their way down her bare arms. She shut her eyes for a moment as her skin broke out in prickling gooseflesh, shivering slightly in the cool air of her room.

His long fingers gently wrapped around her wrists as he stayed put and just looked at her. She could feel it, before she opened her eyes. No one had ever really done this before, and her heart was pounding. He was studying every inch of her, like he hadn't seen her in-

Well. Seven and a half years.

Her eyes watered, and she sniffed.

"Ron?"

"Sorry, sorry." He let go of her arms and ducked his head a bit so she couldn't see his eyes as he stretched back out between her legs and rested his forehead just below her chest, softly kissing her stomach.

Her eyes fluttered shut again as his hands spread out over her bare sides, sliding down to the waistband of her jeans and back up again. She gripped his upper arm, and he took it as a cue to move, which she hadn't intended, but she wasn't complaining as he covered her body with his and kissed her parted lips. She moaned and bit his lip harder than she'd meant to, but he didn't move away, one hand tangling in her hair as she gathered his shirt up the sides of his body, eventually blocked under his arms. Suddenly, he sat up again, ripped the shirt off over his head, threw it across the room, and flattened her under his half naked body. She gasped and wrapped her arms around him, feeling slightly crushed but not wanting him to move an inch. So much of his skin was suddenly against hers, and the chill she'd felt before was now replaced by burning cheeks and combined body heat.

"Shit… you feel amazing…" he groaned, and she hooked a leg around his waist as he peppered her face with half-kisses.

She could feel how this was affecting him, even through two layers of denim. Her jeans felt incredibly restrictive, and she wanted them off. She touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers.

 _Alive._

She was on the point of working out a way to tell him to take off the rest of her clothes when he moved back down her body with his hands and his lips, arriving at the right cup of her bra, pausing for a shaky inhale… and covering her hardened nipple with his mouth.

She squeaked out something incomprehensible that she thought she had probably intended to be his name, clasping a hand in his hair. He sucked her through thin cotton, and she pressed her chest more firmly against him. A jolt of pleasure shot through her as his teeth grazed her nipple, and she reached for his free right hand, aligning their palms, then lightly weaving their fingers together and bringing his hand up to her left breast… leaving it there on its own.

She felt him breathing against her chest, hand squeezing her while he lifted his head enough to clamp his teeth around the top of her right bra cup and tug it down. She felt so exposed just then, naked, intimate skin… until his lips replaced fabric.

"Oh, _God…_ "

If this was how good it felt already…

She knew he didn't know what he was doing, but it really didn't matter. His left forearm was shaking where it was pressed into the mattress by her right side, and he was making little sounds, deep in the back of his throat, vibrating against her bare skin.

Moments later, he moved to sit up again, and her leg dropped like jelly from his waist to her bed. He reached up to slide the straps of her bra off her shoulders, but she had a better solution. Arching off the bed, she reached behind her back and undid the clasp, breathing heavily as he pulled it the rest of the way off for her and tossed it to the floor with his shirt.

"Fuck," he muttered, consumed by the sight of her naked chest, sliding his hands over her bare torso, covering every inch of her in seconds.

Regret was too strong, and all she could do was pretend this was the first time, overwhelmed by wishing he'd been the only one to ever see her like this. She'd never felt so many things at once before. But she'd always been sure, and even more so now, somehow… that this was the only way she wanted to be touched, ever again.

Did he know? He had to know he was the only one she'd ever loved, that she'd love him for the rest of her life… more, if such a thing was even possible.

"Ron."

She wanted to tell him. Desperately, she wanted to. But he covered her mouth with his, misreading her trembling word as calling him closer. And she could have been, for all she felt consuming the swirling admissions she wanted to give him. She was somehow frantic, as if this might be the only chance they would have…

 _It wouldn't be._

His naked chest against hers felt too incredible for words, anyway.

If she couldn't explain just yet, she had to make sure he physically felt at least a fraction of what _she_ felt, though she was relatively assured by the deep, beautiful sounds he was making. She pushed against his chest anyway, urging him to flip to his back as she followed, straddling his waist. His hands attached immediately to her hips as her weight on top of him made her startlingly more aware of what she'd only briefly felt before. She shifted against him, sliding pressure across his erection, and he slurred out a series of garbled swears that instantly flashed her back to pouring rain, in the woods, at the Burrow.

She imagined it must be somewhat painful for him, and she almost laughed out loud at her own mind's attempt to make excuses for every bloody thing… when she _knew_. She could tear off the rest his clothes without a word, and he would never protest. He could do the same for her.

Instead, she bent over him, tips of her breasts brushing his chest and sending shocks of pleasure through her stomach, gathering between her legs, but she had a goal. She lightly bit the underside of his jaw, working her way down his neck, and he grabbed two, large handfuls of her arse through her jeans. As she shifted lower, his hands skipped up her bare back, and she made a noble attempt to kiss every inch of his upper body.

She had actually never done anything like this before, and she was quite self-consciously nervous. But his hands weaved into her hair, and he was slurring her name in that way that made her shiver with pleasure now… and she could almost literally still hear him saying he loved her, first.

They'd never been able to feel so much together, completely alone. And words were suddenly with her again, too many to know where to start, so she picked the first thing she saw.

"I love your freckles," she whispered to the centre of his chest. His fingers spread over the back of her scalp. "I love your hands." Her tongue darted out across his nipple, and a deep, shaky groan raked through his throat. "Oh, _God…_ I love your voice."

She lifted her head and stared almost drunkenly up at his shining eyes, noting that the corner of his mouth was tilted up in a grin that was somehow both shy and also quite amused.

"You're fucking beautiful," he said, surprising her. She felt her cheeks burn again as she shook her head. And though she was in love with their habits, the way they'd push each other, stretching a rubber band beyond when you'd think it should break… just then, she was done. She saw his eyes flood completely with longing, and she knew that he was, too.

She sat back on his thighs, and he reached for her jeans' button at the exact moment that she reached for his. Their hands bumped together and they laughed, and she gave up to let him go first. He awkwardly sat halfway up before she decided this wasn't going to work and climbed off of him to lie on her back. He scrambled to kneel beside her, working her button free and zipper down quite quickly. She lifted her hips to help as he tugged her jeans down her legs, his knuckles brushing so much bare thigh and knees before he finally got them over her feet, pushing them off the end of the bed.

One, small patch of plain white knickers was all that remained, but she sat up before he could work out what to do next, pushing her palm against his chest until he was lying down and laughing, his head resting halfway off the foot of the bed, one of her legs hooking over his as her lightly shaking hands unfastened his belt. Button, zipper, and she was shivering slightly as he kicked his legs a bit to free them. She carelessly shoved his jeans off the side of the bed, and he crawled over her as she scooted back up to her pillow, parting her legs for him to move between, eyes never leaving hers.

Their laughter had faded, replaced with parted lips and shaky breaths.

"Let me just… try to say something," he started, in a raspy half-whisper.

"What?" she whispered back, both comforted by the dark and simultaneously wanting to light the lantern by her bed, to see him better.

"You know I've never done this before, and I-"

"I'm nervous, too," she interrupted, her wavering voice proving her point.

His forehead creased and his brows furrowed.

"Why?"

"Because it's _you_." Her heart was pounding again, and she could easily feel each, strong beat behind her ribs. "I've wanted this with you since I was sixteen."

"But this isn't the first time for-" he began, but he cut himself off abruptly.

She had actively tried to move away from thinking about this, but… now her eyes were watering again.

"I didn't mean…" He made a frustrated sound toward himself, shifting on his forearms, over her. "I'm saying that you… you have something to compare it to."

This was in the neighbourhood of what she had already assumed he was nervous about, but it was absurd to her, really.

"It won't even be close to the same thing," she said, confidently. "Trust me."

He cleared his throat, looking sceptical.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he reminded her, softly.

"Yes, you do."

He paused long enough to blink at her, twice.

"What?"

"You know me better than anyone does," she explained, scratchy voice cracking. "They didn't."

 _He loved her,_ and she could see it in every look, feel it in every touch. The rest wasn't going to matter, and she wanted to trust they'd have time now, anyway.

His eyes softened at her words, and he seemed relieved enough not to worry about it anymore.

"Do you mind if I-"

"No."

His tentative expression turned immediately to an amused smirk.

"You don't even know what I was asking," he reasoned.

"Doesn't matter, go on."

He gave her one last, pointed look, in case she wanted to stop him, and then he kissed her mouth so fast she didn't have time to kiss him back… pushed back to his knees and slid his hands down her body, hooking his fingers in the waistband of her knickers. She helped him, and they had them off and joining the scattered clothes on her floor in seconds.

He took a deep, shaky breath, out through his mouth, and she shivered again. Whatever he'd been planning to do next seemed to have been waylaid by seeing her fully naked.

"Yours, too," she said, in part because she needed the distraction from being so completely exposed to someone she loved more than anything, but mostly because she wanted them to be even.

Their eyes met, and the corner of his mouth slanted up before he sat back and tugged off his boxers and socks, throwing them over the side of the bed. She could see a brilliant flush rushing up his neck and cheeks, and she wanted a proper look at him, but he quickly ducked and kissed her stomach again. Her body was arching into him, hardly aware of what he was doing until he had moved further down, between her legs. She clenched a hand in his hair and trembled, opening her mouth to protest, but only a weak moan came out.

No one had ever done this before.

She'd given him permission to do whatever he wanted, never guessing that _this_ was what he was thinking, first. Not that she minded, only… it was new and incredibly nerve wracking, and had she shaved her legs the previous night? Beads of sweat broke across her chest and temples as his mouth closed around wet, sensitive skin, and she gasped loudly, writhing slightly on the bed.

"Okay?" she heard - _and felt_ \- him ask.

"Mm hm," she managed, no idea how to explain all she'd been thinking about before, and did it really matter, now?

He wasn't quite hitting the right spot, but that didn't honestly matter, either. Everything felt far, _far_ more intimate than anything she'd done before, and she was shaking, anyway. His right hand gripped her left thigh, holding it halfway over his shoulder as his left hand spread across her belly, covering her plain skin with the most beautiful, heavily freckled porcelain, bony knuckle joints, his thumb dipping into the crease between her thigh and torso.

She closed her eyes and angled herself more firmly against his mouth and listened to his low growl, deep in the back of his throat, strongly feeling the vibrations of his voice through her body.

 _Alive._

"Come h-here," she breathed, rubbing her heel across his shoulder blade.

He lifted his head to look up at her, and a stray tear rolled instantly down her face as she stared into his beautiful eyes. He dragged his body up on top of hers again, and she cupped his face in both hands.

"No one's ever done that before," she whispered, and she watched his eyes light up, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.

"Really?"

She nodded, and he brushed her hair back from her face before kissing her softly. He tasted like… her. And though she never would have thought so before, it somehow turned her on even more. She wondered if he was thinking about the same thing, his muscles tensing briefly as her tongue met his bottom lip.

His body was so solid and strong, even after what he'd been through, maybe more so because of it. She bent her knees up higher and rubbed her inner thighs along his hips, trembling with anticipation as his weight pushed her deeper into the mattress, hardly any space left between them at all.

She managed to blush deeper as she thought about reaching down and wrapping her hand around him. Every time she'd had sex without using her mouth first, it had hurt a bit. But, right now, she couldn't make herself care. She was never asking him to move away. His lips slid across her cheek to her ear.

"Now?" he asked, in the most perfect combination of adorable hesitation and low, sexy raspiness. She nodded almost frantically as she clutched his shoulders, and she felt him adjust, one of his hands moving between her legs. Even brief contact with his fingertips made her body arch to get closer.

And, possibly before he was completely prepared, she met his slow thrust and forced him deep inside her by wrapping her legs around his waist. She cried out with pleasure, breathing unevenly through her open mouth. This was not like before. Not at all.

"Fuuuck."

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. But, when he opened them again, he stared so intensely down at her, little creases at the corners of his eyes... and his arms were shaking. She reached up to touch his face again, smiling.

She wouldn't let him out of her sight. She'd move his trunk over to her flat, and she'd drag him to work with her, and-

* * *

He hoped she was planning to let him stay here forever, because he'd mentally moved into her flat, already.

He'd completely let go of the knowledge that she'd done this before, and, just then, it was only the two of them. It felt approximately infinity times better than he'd expected it to, which wasn't going to help him make it last…

The predominate fantasies he'd had from the start were fairly desperate, increasingly vivid daydreams of frantically ripping off her clothes and shagging her on the nearest flat surface. Sometimes a bed, sometimes the floor… sometimes a table, covered in her notes, in the Hogwarts library…

The first time he reckoned he'd really imagined taking things slow was after he'd left them, in the tent, while he was staying with Bill. He'd grown even more fond of the idea in the weeks after Malfoy Manor, those few nights he'd fallen asleep in her bed, up late talking or just lying there, together.

Now, she was moving underneath him and his open mouth kept brushing across hers as if they meant to kiss but couldn't quite catch a breath to do it properly. Part of him wanted to just stop and stay there, hoping he'd gather up some small shards of composure that would make this last longer than two minutes… But the rest of him was physically incapable of doing anything but thrusting into her and seizing up with pleasure as she made those tiny, squeaky noises, every time.

Her beautiful eyes met his, out of focus so close, but he thought he could see quite a bit of what she felt, anyway, and it was probably going to make his bloody heart explode.

"Oh, fuck, I love you," he breathed down at her.

"Say it again," she cried, gripping his left hand and dragging it over her head. He rebalanced his weight, right forearm digging into the mattress, joined hands almost painfully depressing her pillow.

"I love you," he said against her mouth, and her next breath came out as a quivering sob. He lifted his head enough to stare into her blurring eyes again.

"Don't stop," she whispered, clenching around him and causing him to groan with a sudden jolt of doubled pleasure.

"I'm not hurting you-"

"God, no."

He shifted to wipe her face with his fingertips, silently showing her his doubts.

"I j-just can't believe you're h-here."

He nodded, suddenly unable to speak. All he could do was kiss her, which she welcomed with a breathy moan, left elbow locking around his neck as he continued to move somewhat erratically.

And that was all he could take. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, feeling her tongue on his bottom lip, and he came inside her, gripping her hand much too tight. It took him several shuddering seconds to realise, and he quickly released her, rolling off of her to rest on his side, her left leg half trapped underneath him, still staring at her as his heart tried to beat a hole through his chest.

Her own chest was rising and falling dramatically, and she blinked slowly, cheeks flushed brilliantly as she watched him.

"Sorry," he muttered, but he actually didn't feel embarrassed. He half-smiled at her to be sure she knew.

"What for?" she breathed.

"Lasted about five seconds."

She pressed her lips together, and he grinned.

"Hang on," he said, clearing his throat. "I don't think _you_ … uh…"

"I never have," she said shyly. "Well, not like that. Just with… my hand."

His eyes widened slightly, and she licked her bottom lip.

"Do you want me to show you?"

"Shit. Seriously?"

"Only if you want…"

He pushed up onto his right elbow immediately, hovering over her.

"Ridiculous question," he grinned.

"Give me your hand," she suggested, in a shaky whisper.

He held his left hand out over her stomach as she took it in both of hers, pulling it slowly down between her legs… only she didn't take him as far as he expected, stopping at a small, swollen nub he couldn't see.

"There," she breathed, and she pressed her fingers down on top of his.

"What should I-" he started to ask, but then she rubbed his hand back and forth with her right, and she dropped her left away to clutch the sheets underneath her.

"Like that," she sighed, and he was immediately ready to shag her again…

"Fucking hell…"

He was just starting to figure out the pressure and angle she wanted when his gaze drifted down to her hardened, left nipple. He didn't think before he acted, ducking to close his mouth around it.

She gasped and moaned his name, clamping her legs around his hand and hers, together, and she trembled fiercely for a second, then relaxed. She dragged his hand up to rest on her stomach instead, just as he lifted his head from her chest and blinked down at her.

"That was… _fuck_."

Her eyes were closed as she sighed, but then she slowly cracked them open again, gazing up at him as he smiled.

They stared at each other for several silent seconds, and he felt drunk with a million emotions.

"Could you get my wand?" she finally whispered.

"Hm?"

"Cleansing charm," she explained.

"Oh." There was no way his face could get any hotter, but it tried.

He started to move to get up.

"It's in my coat," she said, still holding his hand. "Can't you summon it from here?"

"Wow, I completely forgot," he smiled, settling back on the bed again. "Accio Hermione's coat."

There was a rustling sound from the sofa, and, suddenly, her coat whooshed into the room and dropped down on top of him.

"Mm," she smiled, as he handed it to her, "I'm never getting up again."

She let go of his hand to fish for her wand, then swiped it over both of them and set it on her bedside table, tossing her coat to the floor. They turned onto their sides to face each other at exactly the same moment, both grinning. She reached back to tug a twisted blanket lazily over both of them, and he reached up to twirl a tight curl of her hair around his finger, then rested his hand gently on the side of her neck.

"You're amazing," she whispered.

"I'm not."

"You got out… you _survived_. You came back to me."

"Wish I'd managed it sooner."

"Does it matter now?"

She was right. They were alive and together and everything would be okay.

"No, reckon it doesn't."

"I love you," she mouthed, eyes shining in moon and starlight as he touched the tip of his nose to hers.

"I love you."


	12. 7 Years, 6 Months, 5 Days

_**A/N:**_ _I am so sorry it took so long to update! January disappeared! The next will be a little longer than usual to be finished as well because I've got a packed February schedule. Thanks for your patience, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!_

 _PS - more smut ahead…_

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWELVE:**

 **7 Years, 6 Months, 5 Days**

 **Thursday, 17 November, 2005: Part 1**

For such a long time, they stayed right there, sharing her pillow, just looking at each other. She felt that she could quite contentedly go on staring back into his eyes for the rest of her life. Every time he slowly blinked, her lips twitched. His presence was surreal in a way she had never experienced before, and she still hadn't _completely_ ruled out the possibility that she'd gone insane and was imagining it…

He finally moved to pull their blanket up higher, his legs shifted against hers, and he smiled.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, draping his arm over her waist.

"That you're too far away."

He chuckled as she slid her arm around him and pushed him to his back, resting her head on his shoulder and overlapping his right leg with hers. His fingertips feathered down her back, under their blanket, and back up again.

"I really can't believe it," she sighed, lips brushing his chest as she spoke. "When I got to the pub tonight, to meet Harry, I thought I'd just have a few drinks, then I'd come home and… try not to think about you."

He stopped moving his hand and spread it comfortingly over her upper back.

"Now, you're in my bed."

She must have grown so accustomed to crying that she didn't even feel it this time until her tears had spilled over and rolled down his bare side. After what he'd been through - which, she realised, she hardly knew the full scope of - _she_ was the one crying and clinging to him like he'd saved her. Honestly, he _had_ , but…

"That's not even fair for me to say," she muttered, just as he'd begun working on moving her hair out of her face in an adorably concerned way that only made her tears spill faster.

"Why not?" he asked scratchily.

"Yesterday morning, you were locked up in that room, and-"

His body tensed up, and his hands froze in her hair.

"Don't wanna think about that."

"I'm sorry!" She lifted her head off his shoulder to find his eyes.

"It's okay." He inhaled deeply for a second… then quickly released it. "It's fine."

"It's not fine…"

"You're with me. It's gonna be fine."

She studied his beautiful face for a moment, then shifted to sit up.

"I'm not going to work tomorrow," she decided, as if there was any doubt. "I should let someone know."

She caught his gaze drifting down to her bare chest as she shoved her hair off her shoulders and slid out of bed, darting around to the other side and locating his shirt, flushing as she retrieved it from underneath her knickers… She pulled it on quickly, snatched her wand from the bedside table, and went to her small desk in the corner to light a lantern and scribble a note. Once finished, she rolled it, tied it, and turned back to where Ron was still lying quietly in bed, watching her with a small smile.

She could see him so much more clearly in the light, and she was immediately too far away from him again.

"I'll send it out with the Daily Prophet owl," she explained, moving quickly back to bed. "He'll be here around seven."

But just as she was climbing over his body to her original spot next to him, both of his arms flew around her, trapping her on top of him. She squealed with surprise, tangles of her hair bunching up on his chest and neck as he grinned. He rolled them sideways but kept holding on, burying his face in her hair, and she could feel his heart strongly beating against her sternum.

"I need to explain something," he muttered into her curls.

"Hm?" She closed her eyes and focused on the sound of his voice.

"You know I wasn't angry with you, yeah? When you told me about everything."

Was he honestly concerned about how he'd come across to her? They'd had countless rows through the years, both saying things they didn't really mean, and they'd almost always just let things drift back to comfortable, on their own, if one or both of their voices were ever a bit too sharp, if misread feelings led to jealous reaction… Of course, things had changed when he'd come back to them, in the tent, nights when he was trying so hard to make up for what he'd done.

"Why are you thinking about this now?" she mumbled, pressing her nose behind his ear.

"It's the bloody situation. It's not your fault."

She deeply breathed in the comforting scent of his hair, tinged a little different than usual, most likely from an unfamiliar soap, and she tugged her right arm free from between them to hold the back of his neck, raking her nails through his hair.

"Everyone kept telling me I needed to try to move on," she started at a near-whisper, "but… I didn't know how to love someone who wasn't you. I never wanted to."

He gripped her even tighter and ducked his forehead to her shoulder. She slid her cold foot between his legs, through the blanket tangled over him.

"Are you sure you're alright?" she asked gently. "Does anything hurt? I just… don't know exactly what they did to you, and I-"

"M'fine," he mumbled, in a very muffled voice, and she huffed, slightly frustrated.

"Don't do that."

He lifted his head from her shoulder and rested his cheek on her pillow to look at her face.

"What?"

"You know…" she sighed gently. "You say you're fine, so I won't worry. But I want to help."

He blinked slowly at her before finally clearing his throat.

"Mm… okay, my head hurts a bit," he admitted, "but you don't need to _do_ anything about it. Just being here is helping a lot, and-"

"Come on. Put your head in my lap."

She moved to sit up, but she paused as he smirked at her.

"Already did that," he said.

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling.

"On the _blanket_ ," she clarified, and he laughed as she shook her head, pulling a corner of the blanket over her crossed legs.

He'd been covered to the waist for a while, and, ever since she'd put on his shirt, she'd nearly forgotten he was still completely naked. But, as he shifted and curved his back to reach her lap, his left hip bone slid out from under the blanket, and she couldn't stop staring. Lantern light splashed across pale, freckled skin, a shadow cutting down the crease at the top of his leg, and she could see the warm colour of copper hairs disappearing under the blanket much more clearly than she had before, in the small glimpses she'd gotten of his body, in the dark.

His head pressed against her thigh as he twisted slightly to look up at her.

She licked her bottom lip.

"What?" he asked in a scratchy voice.

"Mm, nothing." She rested her hands on either side of his head, and his eyelids fluttered shut.

* * *

Her fingers felt incredible, lightly pressing against his scalp, then brushing like feather tips along his cheeks and over his forehead. After a few silent seconds, she pushed his hair around a bit and rubbed his temples.

"Does this feel good?" she asked quietly.

"Mm hm."

He turned the rest of the way onto his back and stretched his legs over the side of the bed, and her hands immediately stopped moving, so he cracked open his eyes and blinked up at her.

"Sorry," she whispered, and her hands resumed their movement through his hair again, though her cheeks were suddenly quite flushed.

"You don't have to keep doing that-"

"No, it's not that." Her eyes darted across his upper body, but then her expression changed quickly, and her brows furrowed worriedly. "Is that a bruise?"

He was thrown off for a second, until she lightly touched his left shoulder.

"Oh. Yeah, maybe. I sort of slammed into a door, on my way out…"

"I've got some bruisewort-"

"Nah, I hadn't even noticed til you pointed it out."

He felt suddenly self-conscious, too focused on the fact that he was starkers, in her bed… noting that the blanket that had been half-covering him earlier had moved considerably as he'd shifted around, and that he was almost completely exposed. Considering they'd just shagged and he'd touched virtually every part of her over the last hour, he really shouldn't be shy about this, but…

"You're wearing my shirt," he said suddenly.

"You're naked."

"That makes us uneven."

He was sure he wasn't trying to suggest that he should put clothes _on_ , but as much as he enjoyed the sight of his shirt on her body, it would look even better back on the floor…

"I didn't… see you very well, before," she explained, almost under her breath.

He was about to joke that she really didn't need to when her hands moved slowly from his head to the sides of his neck, down further across his chest. She froze when her fingertips reached his stomach, and his shirt billowed away from her body, partially blocking his view. He reached for her hands and clasped them in his, and she sat up straight again, finding his eyes and staring, upside down.

"You okay?" he asked, scratchily.

Rather than answer him, she let go of his hands, slid his head off her lap, crawled to his right side, leaned forward… and kissed him. But before he could reach up to touch her, it was over, and she was blinking down at him with a vaguely shy expression.

"Just wanted to look at you," she said.

"I wasn't planning on moving for a while," he smiled, attempting to cover for the self-conscious flush that was trying to rise up his neck again.

She smiled softly back and quickly licked her bottom lip before breaking his gaze and picking up his right arm. He tried to relax and let her move how she wanted, touching the tip of her finger to a scar and tracing it… following the ridges of veins across the back of his hand and down his wrist. But it was overwhelming to be studied so fondly by the person he'd hidden the scope of his feelings from for so long prior to finally telling her, compounded immensely by how long it had been since he'd last seen her.

Her hand moved over his shoulder to his collarbone, and she seemed to be avoiding eye contact.

"Do I get to do this to you next?" he asked, surprised by the sudden raspiness of his own voice.

She smiled again, for a second, but it faded away quickly.

"This is new," she whispered, lightly touching a spot on the lower right side of his neck.

"Hm?"

"You've got a tiny scar, just there."

"Oh." He cleared his throat. "How do you know it wasn't there before?"

"I just remember," she sniffed.

Her expression turned quite sad and serious, a look he'd seen too much of during the Horcrux hunt, those long months of dragging themselves away from utter hopelessness. He also knew she wanted to ask him so many questions. It was hard for her to leave something alone, to _not know_. And it wasn't at all that he didn't want to tell her, but it was just… a lot. And he thought maybe they'd earned the chance to just be happy, for a while.

"Will you tell me about it all, someday?" she finally asked, tentatively.

"It's not a _good_ story."

"I know."

But he would tell her enough. He could do it and spare the graphic details… He could be honest but also not want to hurt her more than _they_ already had.

"Y'know, I thought of you, every day," he said in a low, hoarse voice. "Kept me hoping maybe I'd be able to get out of there. Even thought I heard your voice. Obviously, I dreamt it. But then, for a while, I tried to conjure my Patronus, until-"

"My Patronus!" she gasped, eyes going wide.

"What-"

"When you heard me, what did I say?"

Baffled, he shook his head.

"I didn't have the Deluminator, did I," he reasoned, "so I couldn't have heard-"

"Oh my God, the Deluminator! But I was _drunk_!" She slid quickly out of bed and darted across the room to her wardrobe, muttering to herself.

"Oh, don't mind me," he teased, pulling her blanket further over his lap and propping up on his elbows to watch her. "No reason to explain yourself."

Ignoring him, she crouched and rummaged through boxes, then popped up a moment later and rushed back to stand by the side of the bed, holding-

"I've had it with me, all this time! Did you say my name?"

"Huh? Well. Yeah…" His eyes slowly widened as he began to piece things together, and he sat all the way up on the side of her bed. "Yeah, I did! A couple times, when I was alone for long stretches, I-"

"I really _heard_ you!" Her hand was shaking as she held the Deluminator out toward him. "Your voice, in here! Only… only I'd been drinking, and I thought it was all in my head! I had no reason to think you were…" She trailed off, whimpering slightly as he took the Deluminator from her and flipped it over in his hand.

She'd actually heard him? Exactly as he'd heard her, when he'd been trying so desperately to find a way back to them. It almost seemed impossible, and yet, at the same time, how had he not considered this sooner?

"Blimey, I should have thought about where the Deluminator was, that you might have it. Bloody useful… again."

"Would have been, but I didn't _do_ anything about it!" Her watery eyes sought his.

"I was dead. What were you supposed to do?"

She stared sadly back at him for a few silent seconds before speaking again.

"I think I sent you my Patronus."

Once again, he was tossed into the deep end of her thoughts without full context, and he might have grinned at how endearing that was if he wasn't also consumed with curiosity.

"What did I say, in your dream?" she demanded, before he could ask her anything.

"You said…" He paused, recalling the peaceful words that had washed over him in half-sleep. "You said you'd always love me."

Before he'd fully finished his sentence, she was crying, covering her face with both hands.

"Hermione…"

Sniffing loudly, she wiped her hands across her eyes and sat heavily on the side of the bed, next to him.

"One night…" she started, sniffing again, "I'd just come back from-" but she cut herself off and shook her head, skipping over something. "I had to be sure my Patronus was still the same, so I conjured it."

"Still the same?"

She sighed, tugging the hem of his shirt at her thighs.

"It _was_ the same, of course," she continued. "And I… I wasn't being rational. I suppose I gave it a message, but of course I never thought it would actually deliver it…"

His lips parted as he stared at her profile. He'd heard her say she loved him again, tonight, in person. He'd seen it in the way she looked at him, felt it in the way she touched him, but… To know now that the words he'd thought he'd only dreamt back then had actually been hers? _Always_ was such a long time, so much longer than seven and a half years...

"Bloody hell." He ran a hand through his hair as she turned to fully look at him. "That's incredible. I… Shit, if I'd just woken up sooner…"

"I know it shouldn't really matter now. It's over. But…"

He suddenly recalled something she'd said that didn't quite make sense, and he licked his lips.

"What did you mean about your Patronus changing? Why would it?"

"It _wouldn't_ ," she said firmly, and he had a sense he was missing something, that she wanted to be sure he wasn't doubting her, but why should he? "It had just been so… so long since I'd seen you, and I-" She cut herself off and sighed. "Of _course_ I still loved you. It wasn't going to change."

"Hang on. What's that got to do with it?"

Her eyes widened slightly as she stared at him.

"You really don't know?" His silence was enough of an answer. "Ron… why do you think my Patronus is an otter?"

He didn't want to make her explain it if he ought to have figured it out. So, he thought back to the day he'd first seen her Patronus, in fifth year. He considered all they'd studied about Patronuses in school and on the Horcrux hunt. They often took their form because of something emotionally important. Now, guessing from her reaction, that hers had something to do with him, he could conclude that it had taken the form of an otter because-

"Weasels," he finally said, shaking his head. "Seriously?"

"I've always assumed so," she shrugged, eyes still glassy from crying.

But, before he could say anything more, she climbed fully back into bed, lying on her side. He followed, facing her and shifting around on her single pillow, noses almost touching.

"If I'd listened," she whispered, "I could have found you, months ago."

"What was that you said earlier, about it not mattering anymore?"

"I know."

It was a lot easier to say than do, and his mind was furiously looping back to his strained attempts at a wandless Patronus charm, even though, now that he was free, he was quite certain that giving up those attempts and focusing on planning his attack was the only reason he'd made it out alive…

He gently rested his hand on her arm, and she sniffed.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, earnestly.

"What for? Not your fault."

She moved her arm under his hand until her fingers slid between his, and she rubbed her feet against his shins.

"Talk to me about something else," she requested, anxiously. "Anything."

He took a deep breath, trying to think. The first dozen options that flashed by were much too tangled up in their past, missed chances, all the things she wanted a distraction _from_. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"Right. Tell me about your job."

She blinked, then laughed, shaking her head.

"Why?"

"Dunno," he chuckled back. "Just thought if I'd been here, all this time, you'd have mentioned it, once or twice…"

"Well. I've got my own office now, and I mostly try to amend existing laws on the rights of magical creatures. I've been working on one for the giants for months. It takes much too long to sort the paperwork, and it's really a shame, because by the time some things get passed through, it's too late to help everyone. I did discover that it's much easier to amend a law than to write a new one, so-" Her eyes met his, and she stopped speaking. "What? You asked."

"Yeah, I know," he smiled. "I'm listening."

"This can't be very interesting to you."

"I know I was a prat about S.P.E.W., but-"

"You just said it the right way," she grinned, cheeks flushed.

"Oi, surely I have done, before…"

She licked her lips and shrugged.

"Point is," he continued, "reckon I like to hear you talk about it, anyway. When you care a lot about something, you get all…" He lifted his hand and waved it vaguely through the air.

"What's that?" she laughed.

"Dunno," he grinned back. "Excited."

He watched her reaction, lips twitching at the corners. And she was staring at him again, though he found he was far less anxious this time than he had been before. His heartbeat was slow and steady, and he was so much more present in the moment than he thought he had possibly ever been before in his life. He wasn't waiting for anything else. He had everything now.

* * *

She was carefully studying the way beautiful clusters of freckles danced off his nose and across his cheeks. She'd needed a distraction from painfully regretting their missed moments of communication, an attempt to stop swirling deeper into frantic sadness at all those days and nights they might have spent apart, unnecessarily. She wanted to live in happiness, forgetting the past. It was impossible to do completely, she knew, but there were quick seconds, brief moments where it was almost as if he'd been there with her, all that time, and everything else from her life without him was simply a glance in at someone else's life.

He let out a small, shaky sigh and shifted around.

"Reckon that Daily Prophet owl might be convinced to deliver the message that I'm alive to everyone? Save us the trouble?"

"Us?" she said immediately, hung up on the word. "You want me to go with you?"

"Do you mind?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she laughed lightly. "Of course I'll go."

His mildly apprehensive expression melted away to a small smile for a moment… before he sighed again.

"Bloody hell. I shouldn't be this nervous. It's my family."

"It's been such a long time. I understand," she said quietly, thinking once more of how he'd waited a _full day_ to come and see her… but she wasn't going to bring that up again now.

"Do you go to the Burrow much?" he asked, surprising her with the slight change of subject.

"Not really," she answered sadly. "Wish I did, but… it was always so hard to be there, right under your room, and not…" Her voice broke, and she shook her head as he weaved his fingers loosely through hers again. "I told your mum I loved you."

His eyebrows shot up.

"When?"

She swallowed, recalling those weeks after he'd…

No. She kept having to change the word inside her head. _Died_ had been there, for so long.

After he'd _disappeared_ , she'd been terrified to face his family, but she was too weak to protest when she'd heard Mrs Weasley's shrill voice outside her room at St Mungo's, late that first night.

She couldn't stop thinking it… _She_ had been the reason he'd left the safety of his home, taken the bloody Portkey with her…

 _It was her fault. Her fault._

She'd been lying there for who knew how long, time passing by her like skipping stones, her mind a swirl of memories and blank spaces occupied by nothing but a numb chill to her bones. But the moment his mum's eyes had met hers, she'd burst into tears.

"Sorry," she said weakly, ripped back to the present, noticing the questioning furrow of his brows, waiting for her to answer him. "Your mum came to St Mungo's, and I was… a bit hysterical. She just sat there on my bed and held onto me… and we cried together. I can't even explain how much it meant to me. You'd have never been in danger in the first place, if not for me… but still, she was there with me."

His forehead creased deeply, and he shook his head. And she suspected what he was going to say before he said it.

"You didn't honestly blame-"

"Her son was dead because of my choice! Of course I did." She hadn't meant to shout, but the way she had felt, so many years ago, had cut a deep groove inside her, and it was hard to forget.

"I chose to go," he said firmly. "And that's not the point, anyway. No one could've known-"

"I could've."

All the doors were open now, and every painful thought she'd had, every moment of spiraling, useless regret poured back into her.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"I should've checked the Portkey myself, refused to go before I knew for sure it was safe…" Her eyes filled with tears yet again, and he inhaled sharply.

"And if it'd been the other way round? If they'd taken you instead of me? You wouldn't have let me blame myself for that."

"But you would've tried."

She knew he couldn't argue with that, but he seemed to be recalling something else, and his next words surprised her, his tone deeper than before.

"Why were you in St Mungo's? Did they hurt you?"

She blinked… and thick, silent tears rolled immediately down her cheeks, splashing across her nose to her pillow. His fiercely determined eyes held a protective sort of fear she hadn't seen since the Manor. She'd forgotten to explain, as if that whole part of her life was locked behind a wall… the part that he had missed, the part she'd had to do without him. She reached back to find it, knowing he needed her words.

"I wasn't hurt… not the way you mean. The Aurors took Harry and I, straightaway, from the woods, after…" She paused to inhale quickly, focused on the feeling of his fingers between hers. "They kept asking if I was alright… and… and I just remember having a hard time speaking, so they kept me overnight. But I couldn't eat, so they kept me longer… Eventually, they made me see someone to try and get me to talk about it."

He sniffed lightly, swallowing. She didn't want to make things any harder for him, and part of her wasn't sure they should do this yet…

"I _really_ didn't want to talk about it," she added, quietly, and his bare legs shifted the tiniest bit against hers. "I just wanted to sleep, all the time. You were in every dream I could remember…"

His expression softened, and he might have smiled if she wasn't recounting some of the worst memories of her life.

"They wanted to get in touch with my family," she continued, "that first night, but I… I had to say I didn't know wh-where they were."

As she paused for another moment, he tightened his grip on her hand, brows slanting further and thick lines etching across his forehead again, eyes watering.

"We don't have to talk about this," she whispered.

"No. Please tell me," he requested, voice incredibly raw and hoarse. "Unless you don't want to."

"I do want to, it's just… those were the worst few weeks of my life, worse than anything we went through during the war. Anything."

She knew he must be thinking of the Manor, too, as his eyebrows slowly lifted, but she meant it. She could endure many things… but losing him had really not been one of them.

She slid closer, until their foreheads were nearly touching, reminded for the millionth time that it was over. That he was alive.

"Your mum stayed at my bedside for three straight days," she went on, managing a small smile. "One night, I woke up and saw her knitting from the chair beside me, and… and we started talking a bit."

He silently let go of her hand and reached up to rest his palm on the side of her neck instead.

"That's when I told her… how much I loved you, that you'd even said it to me first."

The corner of his mouth tilted up, and she let out a short, breathy laugh before reaching up between them to wipe streaks of tears from her face.

"She always invites me for Christmas and birthdays, sends Harry and Ginny home with extra food when they go for Sunday dinner. She takes care of me like I'm… like I'm your family."

"You are."

"Don't make me cry again," she smiled, realising how useless her words were as her tears continued to fall.

* * *

He'd shocked himself by so confidently saying those two words to her. Not because he hadn't realised how strongly he felt it, but because of everything it might mean to her. Yet he was sure he'd have meant it every one of those ways.

She sighed deeply and took his hand again, closing her eyes. Very slowly, her fingers began to move loosely back and forth between his, and his gaze trickled down from her eyes to her lips to the gentle curve of her neck… stopping where her right collarbone disappeared under his shirt.

For one brief, sudden moment, he felt panicked, as if this was fleeting, like he was grasping the frayed hem of a rapidly fading dream. The contrast was so vivid, between his present and his recent past, that it became almost literally unbelievable. But when she opened her eyes, his fear receded, replaced by mirroring back the relief he saw flowing toward him. Relief that he was still there? Was she afraid to fall asleep, in case he disappeared? He couldn't have known more precisely how that felt. And he needed more, to touch her again, feel her body on his-

He ducked to kiss her exposed collarbone, open mouth encouraged to drag up her neck as she moaned and gripped his hair in both fists. He skimmed across her jaw to her lips, and she kissed him like there was no possible way to get enough.

It was suddenly quite different than before, and she somewhat roughly shoved him to his back, sliding her leg over his thighs to sit on his lap. She immediately gasped, making him strongly suspect she'd forgotten she wasn't wearing knickers.

"Fucking hell…" he muttered under his breath, hands sliding up her bare thighs, and her palms pressed down against his chest.

"Can I-" she started, and he answered anything she could be asking by moving his hands up under his shirt to her bare waist and tilting his head back in something like a nod.

They didn't speak again for some time after that.

She was kissing his neck, his mouth… his hands roamed inside the billowing shirt she was somehow still wearing, squeezing her breasts, gliding down the smoothest skin, over her ribs to her stomach, thumbs angling along her hipbones, down the creases at the tops of her thighs. The pressure of her weight on his lap was making him nearly choke, not even trying to calm down. She suddenly pulled back and sat up quite straight again, hair wild, cheeks such a lovely shade of rose.

Breathing unevenly, she reached between her legs and wrapped a shaky hand around him, and his fingers dug into her skin as he groaned. She quickly aligned her body and pressed her knees into the mattress, letting go of him to grip his forearms instead as he filled her, nails scraping his skin. She opened her mouth to finally speak, but he moved almost involuntarily inside her, and her soft voice faded into a breathy moan. Aside from the obvious separation they'd experienced, out of their control, he found himself deliriously wondering why the hell they'd waited so long to do this…

It wasn't just the physical connection, and as he stared up at her, he was quite sure he could feel everything she was feeling. She held onto his arms and moved back and forth, and his hands slid up and down her thighs, hardly aware of his own movements until she let go of him to work his shirt up her sides. He abandoned her legs and helped her tug it over her head, but the moment she was fully naked, he briefly lost control of his actions. Gripping her arms, he tugged her down to his chest, then wrapped an arm tightly around her waist and flipped them over abruptly, jostling the mattress as she gasped, shocked.

"Fuck. Sorry…" he panted, as he thrust shakily inside her again.

"What?" she breathed, but he was too distracted by the feeling of her bare torso against his own to form a coherent sentence…

"I-" His voice broke, and he shook his head. "Nevermind."

* * *

She felt slightly dizzy, moving so fast, suddenly on her back, his weight pressing her down. She locked her left ankle around the back of his thigh, nose brushing against his as he ducked closer.

"Okay?" he slurred.

"Yes, why-" but she cut herself off as his shifting angle caused him to rub against her in a much better way. "Oh my God…"

His eyes met hers, and he did it again.

She'd never felt this before - not exactly this way. But he was so attentively watching her reactions. He pressed her body deeper into the mattress each time, one hand gripping the back of her thigh. But then his jaw clenched, muscles tight as his mouth skimmed over hers, letting go of her leg to balance on both arms, fists clutching her sheets. She lifted her head from her pillow to kiss him properly, feeling his raw voice vibrate between them, closing her eyes as his movements became erratic, slowly stopping.

Finally, his lips detached from hers to trail down, over her jaw.

"Want to help you-" he muttered against her neck.

"No, j-just stay here. Please."

She really didn't want to bloody cry every time they had sex…

 _Every time._

She tightened her grip, arms looped around his neck, clinging like he could disappear at any moment. She felt him nod, still holding onto her as he shifted his weight partly off of her to lie on his stomach.

* * *

For several hours, they fell in and out of half-sleep, occasionally adjusting positions to get closer to each other or pulling their blanket back over exposed skin. Once, she got up to go to the loo, talking rapidly to him through the door - still afraid to be separated? More than once, he woke and stared at his own hand in hers as the lantern light from her desk behind him dimmed and finally faded completely.

Eventually, she had flipped to her back, and he was quietly staring at her peaceful face, left hand rubbing absentminded circles over her stomach when she spoke softly, eyes still closed.

"What were you apologising for?"

He tried for a second to figure out what she meant, but it wasn't making sense.

"Hm?"

She opened her eyes just slightly, and his hand spread flat over her belly.

"You know… while you were…" She took a slow, sleepy breath and smiled. "When we were having sex… you said sorry."

He recalled it quickly then, and he buried his face in her hair, grinning, voice muffled as he spoke.

"You were on top, then I flipped us. Felt kinda rude."

He could feel her laughter before he heard it. Flushing slightly, he nuzzled his nose against her neck before jostling down to rest his head on her stomach, listening happily as her laughter increased. He closed his eyes, still smiling, draping an arm across her thighs as she moved a hand lightly through his hair. He briefly wondered what time it was, then decided not to worry about it yet… But just as he was beginning to drift off into peaceful silence again, her stomach rumbled against his ear.

"Hungry?" he laughed, and she playfully squirmed away from him, letting out a sound that could really only be described as a giggle. His heart flipped delightfully, and he made his way back up to her pillow, resting his hand on her face as she turned to meet his eyes.

"Are _you_ hungry?" she countered at a near whisper. "My office gave me a tin of chocolates for my birthday, and I haven't eaten any of them yet."

His eyebrows lifted quickly at the mention of chocolate, and it occurred to him just how many delicious things he hadn't tasted in seven and a half years…

"In that case, yeah, I'm starving," he said.

"Summon them for us?"

He cleared his throat.

"Accio chocolate."

They held their breaths as they waited… Seconds ticked past, but nothing happened.

"Hm. Alright," he smiled, turning over onto his back, "maybe we _will_ have to get out of bed, every once in a while…"

"Maybe you're just too distracted," she suggested, cuddling her naked body up against his side.

"Can't imagine why…" he teased, raising a brow at her.

"Focus," she instructed, reaching up and gently resting her hand over his eyes.

He felt immediately transported back to school days, Hermione coaxing him and Harry to study harder for an exam. He might not have admitted it had helped him then, but it had, of course, and he'd grown to rely on it. Now, he found it comforting in such a deep way, his breathing slow and steady as he concentrated.

 _Accio chocolate._

There was a distant rustling and her hand dropped away from his face as he opened his eyes, watching as a red and gold tin flew through her bedroom doorway. It paused in mid-air, then tumbled down on top of them, spilling chocolates across the bed. They laughed as they sat up carefully, Hermione clutching her sheet loosely at her chest, and he reached for the nearest piece.

"What'd'ya reckon this one is?" He bit into it before she could answer, and she leaned against his shoulder, watching. "Mm, bloody hell, that's good."

She sniffed lightly, and he held the other half out to her. She leaned forward and took it from his fingers with her mouth. He swallowed, suddenly distracted again…

"Did they feed you, at the Ministry?" she asked quietly, and he mentally shook himself to answer her as she sat up straight and reached for another stray chocolate.

"Yeah, m'fine."

"I haven't got much here, aside from these."

"Can't believe you've kept a full tin of chocolate for two months. Won't happen again, now I'm here," he smirked, but his expression wavered when she stared silently back at him, lips slightly parted. They hadn't talked about where he'd be staying, long term. Hell, he hadn't thought much beyond that first moment of seeing her, until now. Now that he knew they had some kind of future together… well.

He cleared his throat and reached for another chocolate, eager to change the subject.

"Are these all filled with alcohol? That last one tasted like rum." He bit into what was clearly some sort of fizzy champagne, surrounded by a smooth, dark chocolate.

"Maybe," she said softly, taking a small bite of another. "Oh, must be. I think this one's got butterbeer inside." She reached out to hand it to him, but he ducked and sucked it away from her fingers as she had done to him, heart beating wildly as she gasped lightly.

She licked her bottom lip, adjusted the sheet over her chest, and smiled.

"What?" he asked, around a mouthful of chocolate, but she just shook her head, still smiling. So he reached for the empty tin and began filling it with all the remaining chocolate pieces still scattered across the bed.

"How's your head?" she asked as she watched him.

"Not bad," he shrugged, finishing his work for the moment and leaning back against the wall at the head of her bed.

"A bath might help," she suggested, adorably wrinkling her nose.

"Oi! I _did_ take one before I came to see you," he teased, grinning as she rolled her eyes.

"Shut up. I just _want_ to take a bath with you. It's cold."

"Come here. I'm pretty warm."

She glanced shyly down and chewed her bottom lip before crawling up to lie between his arm and his chest, shifting again to get closer after a second.

"I thought about that morning," she started softly, "in the shower, at the Burrow… quite a lot."

"Me, too."

The memory had been one in a sea of the best of his life. He'd played it, over and over, between recalling their first kiss, scattered memories of Hogwarts and Quidditch, and everything else from those last few days at the Burrow, after the war.

For several minutes, they remained there in silence, his right arm around her, a hazy sort of pre-dawn light drifting through her bedroom window. After a while, she shivered and tucked her legs up further against him, and that bath was sounding pretty good.

"Can I fit in your bathtub?" he asked in a raspy voice, glancing down at her face through a curtain of her hair as she grinned.

"Yes. And, anyway… are you a wizard?"

"Dunno. Let's find out," he grinned back, moving to get up. But she beat him out of bed, and he was stunned motionless for a second at the sight of her naked body walking across the room and through the doorway to the loo.

Shaking himself, he finally followed, almost immediately self-conscious. But he found he didn't mind the feeling at all, as if the nervousness that eased and returned in waves was a wonderful, natural part of being with her so intimately.

She quickly turned on the taps and climbed into her rather large tub, tucking her knees to her chest and staring up at him as he joined her, ears burning. They stared quietly across at each other as the tub filled, Hermione eventually looking down, reaching for his hand, and sliding her fingers between his.

He blamed the roar of warm water rushing from the tap for not noticing she was crying again until he looked up and saw her face was coated in fresh tears, still staring down at their joined hands. He squeezed her hand, and she closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just… still can't believe you're here." When she opened her eyes again, she looked up and smiled at him, tears still sliding consistently down her cheeks.

"I can't believe you're not with someone else right now," he admitted in a low, rough voice, expression quite serious. He hadn't allowed himself to think _too_ much about how this would be, to be with her again… just enough to escape that room and his captors, but not enough to picture his future much more than minutes away…

"This is _awful_ ," she started, sniffing loudly, "but I would have left anyone, to be with you." She winced as she watched for his reaction, and he really wished he could have the right one, but he knew he wasn't capable of that.

The sound he made was a perfect, delighted combination of a laugh and a cry.

"Glad you didn't have to do that," he smiled back, stomach fluttering fiercely.

"Me, too."

* * *

Warm, comforting water had nearly filled the tub, and she turned around to shut off the taps, sighing when she faced him again. For the millionth time in several hours, she felt an overwhelming desire to stay right there with him, forever, forgetting the rest of the world. But she knew they'd have to leave soon. It felt surreal, yet indescribably peaceful, to have been up most of the night with him, never completely falling asleep, and she suspected they'd both be exhausted later, but she didn't care just then. The thought of completely losing her connection with him, even in sleep, made her breath catch with anxiety. Maybe when the sun came up, when he was reunited with his family, she'd start to cement the reality of his return.

She traced little circles on his knee and down his shin with the tip of her finger, slid her feet between his. She must have tickled him a bit as her nails brushed his skin because he flinched and grabbed both of her hands firmly in his, loudly sloshing through the water as he lifted them, fighting a grin. They laughed softly, the sounds of their voices mingling in the otherwise quiet room. And, as it always did, their shared gaze reached that indescribable point where everything shifted.

She moved first, letting go of his hands only long enough to sit on her knees and slide toward him. He lowered his legs under the surface of the water, and she reached for his hands again, climbing onto his lap. He let out a ragged exhale, tilting his face toward hers, and she leaned into the heat of his body, touching the tip of her nose to his and breathing against his mouth. She could feel how difficult it was for him to wait there, and her own heart was beating wildly when he finally gave up and kissed her.

The moment their lips met, she dropped his hands and wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing their chests tightly together. His hands smoothed up her wet back, through her hair, skipping down her shoulder to her sides, then her waist, underwater. She tilted her hips, rubbing against him as he groaned, teeth scraping her bottom lip as he pulled back to take a breath.

"Fuck, Hermione… this is bloody hot."

"And you can't flip me this time," she teased.

"Oh, I hate you," he laughed.

"No, you don't," she grinned back, just before he kissed her again.

Beneath the sloshing sounds of bath water and the deep moans vibrating between them, she thought she could distantly hear someone knocking… knocking again…

Ron tore his mouth away from hers for the second time, panting.

"Is that-"

"Hermione? Ron? You awake?" Ginny called out.

Ron froze, still gripping Hermione's hips.

"Shit. She has a key to your flat?"

"Coming!" Hermione shouted somewhat shrilly to Ginny. "Wait in the sitting room!"

Ron's flushed face shifted from startled to sniggering, clearly at her choice of words.

"Honestly?" she whispered, laughing under her breath as she shook her head.

"Gin has amazing timing," he said sarcastically, as Hermione reluctantly slid off his lap and pulled the stopper to drain the tub. "Reckon she's making sure I go to the Burrow."

"It'll be alright," Hermione said, attempting to sound comforting, though she felt quite flustered by Ginny's sudden arrival.

"Yeah," he said simply, watching as she climbed out of the tub and reached for a towel. "Thanks for going with me."

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked as she wrapped her towel swiftly around her body and handed a second one to him. "I want to be with you."

He smiled and stood, water rushing off his torso and legs, and she was suddenly frozen, staring at him. He dried the hair at the back of his neck, then stepped out of the tub and tucked the towel around his waist, ears and face gently coloured with a light flush.

She softly cleared her throat, and he followed her back to her bedroom where she dressed quickly in fresh clothes. He dropped his towel and pulled on his pants, searching her floor for the scattered jeans, shirt and jacket he'd worn the night before, the only clothes he had.

"I'll go talk to Ginny," Hermione suggested, fondly watching him and trying to casually muster the confidence to leave his sight for a few moments.

"Yeah, alright. I'll be out in a second," he said, as he tugged his jeans up his long legs.

She quickly turned around to leave, rushing out to the sitting room and realising that her hair was still dripping wet, just as she caught sight of Ginny standing in front of the sofa.

"Sorry to interrupt," Ginny said, sincerely. "I thought Ron might oversleep, and, to be honest, I'd nearly convinced myself I'd dreamt everything that happened last night. Had to see for myself again, and I panicked a bit when you didn't answer my first knock."

"That's alright," Hermione said, hoping she sounded less startled than she still felt. "Where's Harry?"

"Outside the front door. He refused to come in… Now I understand why," Ginny smirked, eyeing Hermione's hair and likely noting her generally flustered appearance. Her cheeks warmed another few degrees, but she smiled.

"Ermynee," Ron suddenly called out from her room, clearly through a yawn, "bloody Daily Prophet owl's pecking a hole through the window. I'm letting him in."

"Give him the sickles and note for work on my desk!" she shouted back.

"Got it!"

"Well," Ginny said quietly to Hermione, looking a bit stunned, "he's real."

"I know. It's mad."

They smiled at each other for a moment, then Ron emerged from the hall, shoving his arms into his jacket sleeves.

"You could knock a bit longer before just letting yourself in, Gin," Ron teased immediately, and she shrugged.

"Well, it's nice to see you, too."

"Yeah, sure," Ron laughed, but he gave her a one-armed hug. "Harry?"

"He's outside," Ginny said again. "Mind if we come with you to the Burrow? Thought I could go in ahead of you to warn Mum and Dad a bit so you don't give them both heart attacks."

"Yeah, alright," Ron sighed. "Blimey, they'll be shocked."

"No kidding."

Hermione silently took Ron's hand, and he smiled down at her.

"Ready?" she asked softly, staring up into his shining eyes.

"As I'll ever be."


	13. 7 Years, 6 Months, 5 Days: Part 2

_**A/N:**_ _Ooh boy. Sorry for the delay. I went down a quick Shell Cottage diversion (fics coming soon) and then it was Ron's birthday…_

 _This chapter is shorter than its predecessors, and I have to admit to you all that I'm really only here for my Ron and Hermione, so doing thousands of words of other characters isn't really in my scope of interest. I tried to do justice to this reunion, and I hope I've captured a sort of dreamy montage of stuff that you can fill in with your own imaginations. Thanks so much for following this story til now! There are still a few chapters to go, so I'll see you all again soon! x_

* * *

 **7 Years, 6 Months, 5 Days (Part 2)**

They'd Apparated to the Burrow's orchard, a hazy orange and pink sunrise glinting through the trees, across the fields, through their hair. A light fog hovered over the ground, silent and mesmerising, clouding their view forward.

"Wait here," Ginny instructed, and she set off, vanishing as she moved toward the house.

Hermione was still clasping Ron's hand, and Harry moved closer to the other two, deeply breathing in the crisp, country air. Ron distractedly wondered if they ought to have done this _after_ his father had come home from work - there was no chance the day would proceed as usual, once his parents saw him. But he was also quite sure that any hesitation he felt just then, no matter how logical, was actually a subconscious attempt to put off the inevitable.

He wouldn't have been able to explain it, exactly what it was that made him feel so dreadfully nervous, but he tried to focus on what came after, just one step in a series that led him to the rest of his life. He was usually quite good at looking ahead, when it came to strategy and chess boards, but this mix of difficult to pinpoint emotions was clouding his mind thicker than the morning fog.

"What'd'ya reckon Gin's telling them?" he asked hoarsely, as Harry moved closer.

"Whatever it is, they'll still be shocked," Harry pointed out, and Hermione's hand tightened in Ron's, causing him to briefly close his eyes. It was quite unbelievable, how well she knew him.

He glanced down at her, wishing they were back in her warm bed…

Harry was watching Ron closely, his expression a mixture of dazed disbelief and the sort of fatigue that lurked under unnatural alertness. His glasses were slightly askew from Apparating, and he looked subtly older than Ron had noticed the previous night, more apparent in the light of early morning. It sent a pang through Ron's chest, a reminder of how much he had missed.

"How long can you stay?" Ron asked in a raw voice.

"I've got to stop in at the Auror offices later," Harry explained, "but I'll stay til lunch… then I'll come back after, if you want me-"

"Yeah," Ron interrupted, nodding. "Want both of you here."

Hermione leaned against his shoulder, and he could feel her lightly shivering from the cold.

"Did Harris say anything about a trial for your case when you were there on Tuesday?" Harry asked, finally adjusting his glasses.

"Said they'd be in touch. Maybe next week?"

"Sorry," Harry breathed abruptly, shaking his head as if surfacing from a mild trance. "We don't need to talk about this. I'll ask around."

"S'fine, mate," Ron shrugged. "I know I'll have to do it eventually."

"I hadn't even thought about the trial…" Hermione said in a wispy voice, and Ron was mildly shocked to hear her. She hadn't spoken since they'd arrived.

"Yeah, no point thinking about it til they give us a date, is there…" Ron said, clearing his throat.

"It'll be soon," Harry offered confidently. "They won't want this to sit long. It'll be the biggest case we've had in… well, since the war. The Prophet will have the story printed the moment your name goes public."

"Bloody reporters," Ron sighed, realising. "Perfect."

"Yeah… might want to lay low for a while," Harry suggested.

Ron's lips tugged up toward a grin, on the point of making a comment to Hermione about shutting themselves up inside her flat when his sister returned, looking understandably frazzled.

"Well," she said, inhaling deeply. "I've told them this'll be a shock, someone's here to see them, and they should wait in the kitchen, so let's move. Mum'll crack and come outside if we leave them alone for long."

"Someone?" Ron winced, as the four of them headed toward the house together.

"Was I meant to say it was you? Wouldn't make any difference. They won't believe this til they see it. _I'm_ seeing it… and I'm still not sure I believe it-"

Ginny's voice faded to the background as the Burrow loomed closer and closer, and Ron's pulse seemed to quicken with each step he took. He thought about the previous evening, how the only way he'd managed to face what he'd had to do - to show himself to Harry and Hermione - was to basically shut down and numbly move forward. The difference now was that he had no doubts about his place here, knowing his family still loved him. This confidence now struck a dissonant chord when reflected on so many childhood insecurities… But he had no more time to think about the past, stepping up to the front door, Hermione finally letting go of his hand so he could move through after his sister.

He was hit immediately with a wave of familiarity that nearly choked him. Four steel walls had been his home for so long that they'd been burned into his mind, as if a part of him remained trapped there, disbelieving his own freedom. But, _here_ , there was a warmth he'd thought he'd forgotten, worn wooden floors and rugs, mingling smells of fresh cooked sausages and the potted herbs that grew in the window sills.

Ginny glanced back, nearly through to the kitchen, and he could _feel_ Harry and Hermione behind him. He wasn't going to cry… but his eyes were burning, and his feet felt heavy, as if glued to the floor.

"Ginny?" his Mum's shrill voice called out.

And it was nearly as if no time had passed, his mother calling them for breakfast. If he could forget how long it had actually been, he could do it.

He inhaled deeply, felt Harry's hand on his shoulder for a moment… and then, he stepped through the kitchen door.

They were standing there, together, at the opposite end of the table, his mum clutching his dad's arm, eyes wide and unblinking. He almost couldn't believe they were real - a mirage, a trick of the morning light through the window behind them.

"Hey," he said weakly, watching as his mum's face went stark white.

For a moment, he thought she would scream, but he quickly realised that the shock of his reappearance went well beyond that. Both his parents tried to speak at the same time, lips moving as no sound escaped, before his mum stumbled a short step to the nearest chair, sinking down and shaking.

"It's really him," Harry's low voice called out behind Ron.

"You're sure?" Ron's father asked in a wavering voice he thought he'd never heard before… at least not… not since Fred.

"Yes," Harry said confidently.

And that was, apparently, all it took. Trusting Harry completely was ingrained by now, and this would be no different. His mum suddenly sobbed, a mixture of his name and trembling exclamations, mingled with her cries.

Ron swallowed thickly and crossed the room to her side, hesitantly meeting his father's wide eyes.

"You were _dead_!" his father breathed, tightly gripping his mother's shoulder.

"I know. I'll explain everything," Ron said, shocked at how terribly unsteady his own voice sounded. "Mum…" he tried, glancing down at her suddenly frozen expression of disbelief, face streaked with tears.

"Oh, _Ron_!" she cried, breaking completely, reaching out and tugging him down to hug him. He knelt on the floor in front of her and hugged her tightly back, exhaling shakily over her shoulder. "Where have you been?!"

He closed his eyes, exhausted by the mere prospect of explaining everything but understanding how much they would need it. He felt his father's hand on his shoulder, fiercely holding onto his jacket, and he couldn't speak.

He couldn't be sure how long they stayed there, only that he became conscious at some point of his father's arms fully around him, too, and the drying tracks of so many tears running down his cheeks and off his jaw. He sniffed and wiped his sleeve across his face, but an undercurrent of panic slowly drifted through him, which he logically knew to be ridiculous…

He turned to look over his shoulder, sighing, relieved to see Hermione, Harry and Ginny sitting quietly at the opposite end of the table, all silently crying as well.

"Let's go to the sitting room," his father suggested, helping his mum to her feet, steadying her as they walked.

Ron automatically took Hermione's hand as he passed her, and she smiled weakly as she stood to walk with him, holding onto his arm. His parents sat close together on the sofa, staring at him with that same sort of impossible shock that Harry had worn outside. Ron wordlessly squeezed next to Hermione on an armchair, and both of her hands clasped his reassuringly.

"Okay," he sighed shakily. "I'll try to start at the beginning."

* * *

Over an hour later, a seemingly endless list of questions had been answered, and though he was sure there would be more, he reckoned he could save the rest for another time. A dreamy halo of exhaustion had fully settled around him, having stayed up so much of the previous night, emotionally drained from the weight of _everything_.

His father had owled in to work, and Ginny had been instructed to floo Bill, George and Charlie, an afterthought of Percy mentioned as she'd nodded and darted away with Harry. The silence stretched too far once they'd gone, and his mother shook her head disbelievingly, crying again.

"Oh, Ron," she sighed. "We haven't done much to change your room. Your bed's still there, and some of your old clothes and posters and things are in the attic. You can move right back in!"

"Oh, yeah?"

He felt himself glance sideways at Hermione, before he realised he was going to do it, but he was immediately comforted by the fact that she seemed to be wearing a nervous expression of opposition that mirrored exactly how he was feeling.

"Maybe he'd like to think about it, Molly," his dad chimed in, and Ron felt immensely thankful that his father could apparently read his mind. However, he wasn't going to dwell on the fact that this also probably meant his father had some suspicion that Ron was currently obsessing over the question of whether or not his girlfriend wanted him to live with her…

"Why would he need to think about it?" his mum asked, genuinely confused. "He's back… back h-home!"

"Ron, do you want to go up and see your room?" his dad suggested, and he strongly suspected it was meant only to allow him an excuse for a moment alone. "Go on, we'll wait here."

"Thanks, Dad," Ron said, voice hoarse again with emotion and an hour of speaking almost nonstop.

He let go of Hermione's hands as he stood, but he glanced back, hoping she'd go with him… smiling as she received his unspoken message and followed him, a reminder of things he'd taken for granted in their younger days, how well they worked together.

"Thought you might want to do this alone," she said softly, as they ascended the first flight of stairs.

"There's nothing I want to do alone. Not without you, anyway."

He didn't think he'd imagined the relieved expression that had taken over her features at his words. He would have taken a moment to feel impressed that he was able to say such things to her with a practiced ease that wasn't… _practiced_ at all. But he almost felt like the night they'd had together had bridged the gap in both their physical relationship _and_ the words he'd never had the chance to say, because, the more time he spent with her, the more exponentially comfortable he felt.

"I haven't been up here in almost as long as you…" she added quietly, as they crossed the second landing.

She stayed close to him until they reached the final stairs, noticeably slowing down as they moved upward, in the dark, toward the closed door to his room. He arrived at it first, briefly pausing before reaching for the knob, inhaling deeply… then pushing open the door.

The room was almost blindingly streaked with morning light from the window, but the first thing that really struck him was how surprisingly bare and cold it was there. This had been his home, the safe space that was his, tucked away from the world, a place to hide when he'd needed to be alone. Now… what did it mean for him? Things had already changed considerably when they'd come back from the war. But _today_?

He walked toward the centre, Hermione just behind him. Seven and a half years. He'd never expected things to remain unchanged. In some ways, maybe he hadn't completely wanted them to.

The bed was neatly made, chest of drawers looking lonely against an otherwise nearly bare wall. One single Cannons poster remained tacked to the slanted ceiling above his bed, and the corner of his mouth turned up slowly.

He could feel Hermione beside him, shaky breaths as she stared around. And he wordlessly led them to sit on the edge of his bed, not quite touching, silence cut only by a whistling wind blowing by outside. All at once, he was overcome by his memory of the last time he'd been there… those last moments they'd spent there together.

" _Ron, I told you," Hermione laughed, emerging from behind the bathing costume he'd playfully hurled at her from his spot on the floor, where all his clothes were messily laid out as they packed his rucksack. "It won't be summer in Australia. They're having their winter just now."_

" _Doesn't have to stop us going for a swim," he shrugged with a grin, rummaging through his mismatched socks._

" _It very well may stop_ me _."_

" _Aw, come on." he said through a yawn. "Shouldn't you bring something to wear, just in case?" But then he paused and smirked at her. "Or maybe not. Don't they have those beaches where you don't have to wear anyth-"_

 _She flung his pillow off his bed, it hit him across the face, and he collapsed dramatically to his back, on the floor, eyes closed._

" _Our Portkey leaves in two hours," she laughed, sliding off his bed to join him on the floor. "Stop messing around." She reached out and shoved his shoulder, and he smiled up at her, opening one eye._

 _She was so perfect, and he was familiarly hit with a dose of nearly heart-stopping love. She was trying (and desperately failing) not to grin back at him, adorably biting her lower lip in a bad attempt to hid it from him._

 _He cleared his throat and opened his other eye._

" _Right, sorry," he said in mock seriousness, dropping his voice a bit lower than usual._

 _They stared at each other for too long, his expression maintaining an air of stern solemnness that must have looked incredibly comical… and she finally burst out laughing, ducking so her hair fell forward to hide her face for a moment. But then she roughly shoved aside his socks and picked up his right arm, moving it out of the way so she could lie down, curled against his right side._

 _He sighed contentedly, hugging her closer._

" _We really do have to hurry," she whispered after a second._

" _Yeah," he whispered back._

 _She draped her arm across his stomach, in conflict with her words, and he reached up to run the tips of his fingers back and forth across her forearm._

" _I do know this isn't a holiday, by the way," he said, because he suddenly felt like maybe he ought to have left out the jokes about the beach. He felt her nod against his shoulder._

 _She was silent for a long time after that, but when she finally spoke again, her lips brushed his neck._

" _Don't stop making me laugh."_

 _He turned his head right, bumping his chin against her nose, but she pushed up enough to slide her parted lips between his before he could speak. His eyes slipped slowly shut, and he reached up to lightly cup her face in his large hand._

 _When she finally pulled away again, she blinked as if mildly drugged, and she pressed her palm to the floor to sit up._

" _Ron."_

" _Hm?" He twirled a long curl around his finger._

" _Thank you," she sniffed, tearing up a bit. "Thank you for coming with me."_

" _Y'know…" He cleared his throat. "Even though we weren't properly together, when you first told me what you'd done, I started imagining going with you, once the war was over. Reckon I used it as a way to keep feeling like we'd make it."_

 _She pressed her lips together and nodded, glancing from his face to his hand in her hair._

" _I love you," she said a bit shakily, still staring at his hand._

" _Yeah, I know," he grinned. "Can't believe I can say that."_

 _She met his gaze and grinned back at him, eyes glassy but no tears falling, and she reached for his hand in her hair, entwining a few of her fingers with his._

" _Love you, too. Don't forget," he sighed, finally sitting up to kiss her again._

That frantic feeling of clinging to the past was fading somewhat, though his deeply ingrained habit of replaying the perfect days, hours, _minutes_ they'd shared before he had been ripped so forcefully away was still too familiar.

Next to him, on the edge of his bed, Hermione moved a bit closer, rested her head on his shoulder, and he wondered if she was remembering the same things he was. He draped his arm across her shoulders, and they didn't speak or move again until Harry cautiously appeared in the doorway to let them know that Bill and Fleur were on their way.

* * *

She was sitting on the floor, outside the loo. She really had to stop this, pull herself together, only… she couldn't do it just yet. Soon, but not today. Not less than twenty-four hours since she'd found out he was alive. She hugged her knees to her chest and narrowly stopped herself from calling out to him on the other side of the door. He was back - they were going to be fine. She knew it, and yet…

She finally heard the taps come on, and she sighed, resting her head back against the wall until the door opened and he stepped out onto the landing.

"Hey," he said as he spotted her, not too surprised to see her there. She smiled weakly and stood, nerves dancing around as she thought again of what she wanted to say. She might not get another good chance before his brothers descended on the house, and then the day would be gone, and-

"I know you've just got back," she said quickly, before she could overthink it, "and of _course_ your family would love for you to stay here. I'm sure your mum wants things to go back to how they were supposed to be, before. And it's your _home_. I can't imagine how it must feel to be back. But… I don't want to be away from you. That's selfish, isn't it. I'm sorry. And maybe I shouldn't do this, but… I wanted to… I mean I was going to- to ask you to move in with me. I thought maybe, after last night, you might want-"

"Bill's here!" Ginny shouted, as she bounded up the stairs toward them, oblivious. "Come on! He doesn't believe you're really alive. Can't blame him." She tugged Ron's arm, encouraging him to follow her, and he gave Hermione such a conflicted expression before allowing his sister to drag him away. Hermione exhaled shakily before falling in behind them, eyes prickling madly at the weight of everything happening so quickly around them.

She wanted desperately to know what Ron was thinking. She knew she'd asked something that might put him in a difficult situation. Part of her hoped he felt like he could be honest with her and decline her offer if he wanted to stay with his family now. But an equally powerful part was desperate for him to say yes. How much more time could they waste? She wanted the answer to be none… not a single second more.

But they'd reached the sitting room where Bill's face drained of all colour at the sight of Ron's tall frame appearing round the corner from the stairs. Everyone was suddenly shouting and crying and laughing, and Hermione slumped down in a small chair, out of the way, unaware of her own tears as they fell until she was wiping them away on her jumper sleeves.

"Unbelievable," Harry sighed as he joined her a few minutes later, leaning heavily against the wall. "It's like I keep waking up from a really vivid dream where he was gone all those years…"

She nodded her agreement, not quite able to speak.

* * *

The rest of the day proceeded in a flurry. A very pregnant Fleur had arrived with Victoire and Dominique, and Ron had spent at least an hour on the floor playing with his nieces, coaxing Hermione and Harry into a game of snap just as Teddy had arrived to join them. George had appeared in the garden after lunch, a look of absolutely dazed shock permanently plastered across his face as Ron had rushed out to meet him, and they'd spent nearly an hour together outside before George had finally come inside the house, announcing that Angelina would be arriving in time for dinner. Percy, Audrey, and their young daughter Molly had appeared via floo shortly thereafter, and Mrs Weasley had given up serving anyone at the impossibly overcrowded table, handing around plates where each person stood or sat instead. Charlie was the only missing face, due to the time necessary for an owl to reach him in Romania.

As Mr Weasley began pouring glasses of Firewhisky, the sun set pleasantly around the house, casting an illusion through the front windows that the fields had been lit on fire, and Hermione smiled to herself with a wash of memories as she stared out, Ron's voice calmly speaking to his brothers and Harry, behind her. She tried to ignore the anxious feeling of separating if Ron chose to stay with his family for the night, calming her nerves by reminding herself that she'd be welcome here, too. Mrs Weasley had cornered her and hugged her more times than she could count, already.

When Fleur and Audrey left to put their children to bed, Ron got up to say goodbye… and moved his chair much closer to Hermione's when he returned. She glanced happily over at him, but then he slumped down in his chair and laid his head on her shoulder, and she closed her eyes.

"Alright?" she whispered.

"Mm hm. Tired."

She opened her eyes and stared at the top of his head, messy ginger hair tickling her cheek and neck, and she would have probably cried again if George hadn't walked up to them just then with a bottle to refill their empty glasses.

* * *

Hermione had been sitting by the fire with Ginny for a while, and he had seen her blinking very slowly, looking as exhausted as he felt. When she went to the kitchen, he followed a few minutes later, finding her and Harry by the sink, washing dishes.

"Ready to go?" he asked, hands in his pockets.

"You're leaving?" Hermione turned round to face him, eyebrows slightly raised.

"We've seen everyone, 'cept Charlie," he shrugged, "and I reckon he won't get the message I'm here 'til tomorrow, earliest."

"I'll find Ginny and say goodbye to your parents," Harry suggested, brushing past Ron toward the sitting room. "Oh," he added, turning back for a moment, "we should go by my flat and get your trunk so you can take it to Hermione's."

"Yeah, good idea-" But Ron's voice was abruptly cut off by Hermione's body thudding against the front of him and almost knocking the wind out of him. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders as Harry vanished from view, and she clung to the back of his jacket.

"I thought you'd stay here," she muttered to his chest. Of course… he hadn't told her his decision, but it had seemed so obvious to him that he'd not thought she'd had any doubts. His only obstacle now was what might be a relatively difficult conversation with his mum, but it would be worth it.

"After you asked me to move in with you? Hell no." He hugged her a bit tighter and dropped his nose to the top of her head.

"Your parents-"

"-technically live a couple seconds away, don't they, and-"

She abruptly lifted her head from his chest and cut him off with a fierce kiss.

Time seemed to stop, his hand got lost in her hair… he somehow managed to trap her between his body and the nearest wall… and he only resurfaced at the sound of Harry's voice.

"Oi! Can't you hold it in for-"

"No, I can't," Ron answered, grinning down at her.

* * *

By the time they'd retrieved his trunk from Harry's and made it back to her - _their_ \- flat, she was falling asleep on her feet. They hadn't unpacked his things, leaving that task for another day, but she'd enlarged his trunk at the foot of her bed.

"Oh, could I borrow your wand for a second?" he asked.

"What for?" but she was already handing it over to him.

"Never tried a wandless Reparo before," he smiled, turning to leave her bedroom. She followed, yawning but curious, out to the sitting room, where he faced the wall by her fireplace… and she saw it. The hole he'd made the previous night, throwing books.

He quickly fixed the damage, and she wiped at her burning, watery eyes as he pressed his palm to the wall to check his work.

"Sorry," he muttered, handing her wand back as she shook her head.

"We should get you a new wand, tomorrow," she offered, softly.

"Mind if I come with you to work?"

For a moment, she was speechless, comprehending his sudden question, but then she smiled broadly and nodded, relieved. He ran his hand through his hair as he smiled back, and she tugged his wrist, leading him back to her - _their_ \- bedroom.

Her stomach erupted in butterflies as he cleared his throat and unbuckled his belt, and a part of her was reveling in the fluttery nervousness flowing through her at the prospect of sleeping together, no matter how absurd her logical mind thought it was, given their previous night of _sleeplessness_. But she confidently leaned in to the enormity of her feelings, resting on the ones she knew the strongest - she loved him, he loved her, he was home.

She tugged off her jumper, then shimmied out of her jeans, catching his gaze on her as he emerged from taking off his shirt. In only her vest and knickers, she climbed into bed, and he followed in only his boxers, so much warm skin sliding together between her sheets. She sighed contentedly, thinking that if they weren't so exhausted, she'd never be able to fall asleep straightaway. His gorgeous eyes were staring across the pillow they were sharing, icy blue in reflected moonlight through her sheer curtains. His thumb rubbed a gentle circle over her hip bone, and she shivered lightly, moving closer.

She had no words for the completely unbelievable path their lives had taken, knowing only one thing as sure as the beat of her own heart. He was with her, to stay.

"Can't go to sleep," he muttered in a comically opposing tone of sleepiness.

"Why not?" she whispered back, smiling.

"Don't wanna stop looking at you."

"I'll be here when you wake up," she answered, reassuring herself about his own presence as much as she was replying to his lovely sentence.

"Best words I've heard in years."

"How about… _I love you_?"

"You're right. That's even better."

"Come here," she sighed deliriously, tugging his arm over her waist as she flipped to her opposite side, back toward him as he tucked his body tight against hers.

"Bloody love you, Hermione," he mumbled into her curls, and she somehow managed to move back even closer against him.

He gripped both of her hands together in one of his, and the last thing she remembered, as she drifted off to sleep, was gazing at the first joint of his thumb and the freckles that covered his beautiful skin.


	14. 7 Years, 6 Months, 6 Days

_**A/N:** Ahoy, **smuts ahead**! As always, thank you isn't nearly enough for the wonderful reviews that have been rolling in, and if I haven't replied to you yet, I promise I will as soon as I can! Love you all. x_

* * *

 **7 Years, 6 Months, 6 Days  
** **Friday, 18 November, 2005**

She started awake to the sound of a car speeding by outside, someone's _hand on her hip_ … and her dark room was immediately spinning.

She flipped over so fast she almost hit him in the face. Him. _Ron_. Ron was _alive_. Staring back at her, eyes wide.

She burst immediately into tears, reaching up to hold his face in trembling hands, legs tangled in her twisted sheets.

"Ermynee?"

"I-I thought… thought I'd f-fallen asleep with someone…"

"Well…" He attempted a lopsided grin, clearly shocked by her outburst. "You did."

"Someone," she cried, dropping her forehead to his mouth and closing her eyes, "...someone _else_."

"Oh." His lips brushed her fringe, hot breath on her skin, and she felt his hand tangle in her hair as he loosely held the back of her head.

She slid one hand down from his face to his bare, warm chest, noting with mild alarm that his heart was racing.

"I frightened you."

"Interesting way to wake up," he quipped, in a muffled, sleepy voice, "but m'fine."

She quietly breathed for a moment as his pulse slowed, and a second car rushed by down below. The sounds of the city had never really bothered her - another mask to hide behind when she'd been crying herself to sleep. But she noticed it more now, noticed everything more, as if all her senses had been reawakened.

His skin smelled so _warm_ , the only way to describe it, that sort of sleepy, cozy scent that made her feel safe. Colours seemed more vivid, myriad tones of copper and amber and ginger from freckles to shaggy hair to light stubble.

She finally lifted her head back to her half of the pillow they were sharing and stared at him.

"What time is it?" she asked blearily, almost instantly recognising what a silly question it was. He shrugged, smiling in an amused sort of way, and she felt her face warm a bit.

"Very late," he offered, "or… very early."

He lazily reached out to touch her side, evidently missing his mark a bit as his hand brushed high up her ribs. He swallowed and slid it around awkwardly to her back as she shivered. And she suddenly remembered that, somewhere in the tangled web of her half-formed, confusing dreams, she'd been feeling his hands on her, all over her skin, warm and gentle but urgent.

She so strongly recalled what it had been like, years ago, that longing, intense desire for him, staring too long at his hands in Keeper's gloves, a million tiny sparks through her veins when she'd meet crystal blue eyes. It had all rushed back when he'd returned, a flash flood, overwhelming her in the best way.

 _This was what it felt like to be happy. This was how it felt to be in love._

And all her fears now made so much sense, a tidal wave of perfect feeling she could only cling to blindly and beg and beg to never have ripped away from her again. Irrational thoughts of losing him - of losing everything - were so much easier to comprehend, now that she understood the difference between safe and lost.

"Hey…" he said scratchily, and she realised he must have noticed something changing in her expression, because his forehead was lightly creased and he was carefully watching her with sleepy, shimmering eyes.

But she didn't want to talk.

She pushed the front of her body against his and kissed him.

He must have wordlessly understood quite a lot of what she was thinking… or he was thinking the same things, because he responded eagerly, and his left hand, which had been quite tentative a moment ago, was now gathering her vest up her back, knuckles digging lightly into her spine. She straightened her legs to get closer, but then he gripped her tighter and tugged her on top of him as he rolled to his back, left hand spreading flat over her skin, right fingers sliding across her collarbone, slipping the thin strap of her vest off her shoulder.

She pressed her palms to the mattress, over his shoulders, and dragged her mouth away from his to sit up with the intention of removing her vest completely. But he followed her like a magnet, lips a breath apart as he sat up with her, until she was straddling his lap and his forearms were sliding up her back to hold her firmly against him, fingertips tangling in her hair. He kissed her again, very lightly shaking as she raked her nails along his scalp, down the back of his neck, forgetting about her vest.

She pressed herself down against his crotch… she could feel how much he wanted her, and she nearly _desperately_ needed more. She reached down between her legs to touch him, mouths still attached, and a low growl rolled through him, vibrating between them. She'd never felt so connected to another person, so aware of each other that they didn't need to speak. But he reached for her knickers at the same moment that she separated from him to climb off his lap to remove them. And she happily let him do it for her, yanking them down and not even taking the time to push them off the bed before shoving his pants down his own legs and kicking them free. She grabbed his wrist the very second he was naked, pulling him toward her to cover her body as she collapsed to her back with her head at the foot of the bed, the quickest option. And he kissed her deeply, crushing her between his warm body and tangled blankets.

When he eventually pushed up for a breath, she grasped his hand, dragging it down her body, over her bunched up vest which scarcely covered her breasts, her hardened nipples straining against taut fabric… moving his palm across her belly, between her legs. His breathing changed, shaky bursts through his mouth, and she gasped each inhale, cheeks burning, hair frizzing wildly around her face. He pushed her legs wider apart, and she found his consuming gaze, as unable to look away from those eyes now as she had been unable to stare into them for very long, years ago.

He could probably read her mind. Just then, she wasn't going to tell him what she wanted. It wasn't difficult to guess, but he'd always had to ask. To be sure. To move cautiously forward. They didn't want to be cautious, now.

The fingers of his right hand dug into her thigh while his left steadied his body above her, trembling. She reached between them, wrapped her own hand around him, finding the perfect position before he pushed forward and filled her, her fingers momentarily trapped between their joined bodies as she cried out, not even trying to mute the sound.

He pressed his forehead to hers, then kissed her again, tongues meeting, teeth lightly scraping. He moved faster than before, more frantic, lightly sweaty chest rubbing across her damp vest, shyness gone in the middle of the night in a room that was _theirs_ instead of hers. In less than a minute, she was so close to an orgasm that she thought she could use her own hand for a few seconds and-

"Wait," he whispered, suddenly shaking quite noticeably. He breathed heavily against her mouth for a moment, frozen.

"What-"

"Wanna make this last," he slurred, closing his eyes.

She wanted to tell him not to stop now, but she was immediately distracted by his face, lashes lightly resting on his cheeks, a twitching muscle in his jaw, his hand fisting in her hair as he swallowed, neck moving gorgeously.

When he opened his eyes again, quite slowly, she smiled up at him. She made the tiniest adjustment underneath him, and he grinned, ducking to kiss her jaw as he moved slowly inside her now. But the change in tone wouldn't last, and she clenched around him, rubbing her inner thigh along his hip.

"Ah, fuuuck." His hand was thoroughly twisted up in her hair, but he managed to free it and stop moving again. "Got an idea."

She nodded deliriously, and he gripped her waist as he sat back on his knees, between her legs, pulling her toward him and filling her completely again. He moved his right hand to the spot she'd taught him the previous night, and she gasped.

"Tell me… if I'm doing this wrong," he breathed, looking slightly dizzy, but she just reached down to slide her fingers over the back of his left hand where it was still tightly holding onto her waist.

He had always learned quite quickly, when he was paying attention, when the subject interested him. He carefully watched her face, gaze eventually roaming down her nearly bare body.

"Give me your other hand," she breathed, staring at the sharp curves of his bony knuckles at her waist.

But, rather than do as she'd requested, he shoved his left hand up her body, under the vest still trying to cover her breasts, and he firmly rolled her nipple between two long fingers. A shaky moan exhaled from her open mouth.

"This what y'want?" he asked breathlessly, and she could sense the nervous hesitation in his assumption. She nodded quickly to reassure him, tilting her head back, angling herself more firmly and exactly against his hand still moving between her legs.

And then, quite abruptly, her breathy moans turned to a shaky cry, eyes snapping automatically shut as she trembled, nails of one hand digging into his arm while the other clenched in the tangled sheet underneath her. Pleasure coursed through her, and she wanted to see him, opening her eyes again quickly to stare up at his beautiful face in the dark. His own eyes widened as he watched her, lips slightly parted.

"Did you just-"

"Yeah, a bit," she actually _giggled_ , horrified for a moment as she heard the sound escape her own mouth… but she quickly stopped caring as he crushed her lips with a delighted grin.

She'd not realised just how thin a grasp he'd had on his own control until he thrust exactly twice into her and groaned, sucking her bottom lip between both of his as he came inside her, muscles tight, her hands spreading across his shoulder blades as he dragged his mouth from her lips to her neck.

For several lengthy, lazy seconds, he remained there, covering her, her entire focus back on the beat of his heart and the slowly-returning-to-normal breathing between them both. Finally, he lifted himself off of her, sitting back up on his knees as she slowly blinked up at him. He smiled in such a disbelieving way as he gently reached for her hand, and she sat up in front of him, watching as he wordlessly gathered her vest and lifted her arms for her. She laughed lightly as she slowly attempted to help him pull the thin fabric off over her head, tossing it aside, crawling after him to collapse at the top of the bed again.

There was so much feeling, everywhere. It came from inside, from her heart, from a dreamy night slowly painting the colours on grey canvas, from the way he looked at her. She could live in a single second, pause time and stay right there. But it took no time at all to drift away, encased in the warmth of his body and the cool, thin sheet he silently draped over them both.

* * *

She woke in a jumbled twist of bare limbs, her bedside alarm chiming in increasingly louder intervals, the Daily Prophet owl tapping her window, and a streak of pinkish morning light cutting through her sheer curtains. Pressing her lips together, she attempted to extricate her legs from Ron's, and he grunted in a disapproving way, in his sleep.

She sighed softly, a bloom of affection spreading through her at the sight of his long fingers wrapped loosely around her arm. Unfortunately, that feeling wasn't going to help her untangle her body from his and get out of bed in time for work. She couldn't reach her alarm or her wand, for that matter, both of which were resting on the bedside table across Ron's _gorgeously freckled and very, very naked body_ …

She cleared her throat and tried to focus.

But she was far too easily distracted. As she lifted the sheet from her stomach and slid her foot out from between his shins, she got a full and well-lit view of the front of his body, copper hairs across his chest, thin stomach with the faintest definition of strong muscles, the curves of his hip bones, that thicker trail of hair that led down from his bellybutton…

She briefly closed her eyes before resuming her necessary escape by wiggling sideways toward the opposite side of the bed. He muttered something incomprehensible in his sleep, the tone of which was clearly that he'd much prefer her to return to her former position and fall back to sleep with him for the foreseeable future.

She reluctantly slid all the way out of bed, glancing back as he rolled partially over to his stomach, where she'd just been, and slid his arm underneath her pillow. She quietly made her way around the bed to her side table, shutting off her alarm, then picking up his shirt and pulling it on before letting the Daily Prophet owl in and paying him.

It was absurd, really, the things Ron could sleep through.

Leaving him to rest a bit longer, she went to take a shower, keeping the door open so she'd be able to hear him. She managed to convince herself that a less-than-five-minute shower had much more to do with how late she might be for work than it did the fact that she didn't want to be away from him…

She quickly returned to her room and dressed, picked up her wand to dry her hair… And then she had nothing left to do but go, so she walked back around the bed and climbed in, kneeling on the mattress beside him.

"Ron…" she whispered, lightly stroking her fingers through his hair.

No reply.

"Ron."

He made the tiniest of noises in the back of his throat and nuzzled his cheek into her pillow.

She playfully glared down at him and fisted her hand in his hair.

"Ron. Wake _up_."

His left eye opened, a small smile spread across his sleepy face, and she tried to maintain a semblance of seriousness as she let go of his hair.

"I've got to be at work in twenty minutes…" she explained, clearing her throat, "and you're naked."

"Hmm," he grinned, but she could see a light blush colouring the tips of his ears. "You _sure_ you've got to work today?"

"I wouldn't, honestly," she said apologetically, "but I've got a report due on Monday, and I don't think anyone else in my department will know what to do-"

"Oi, I'm getting up," he interrupted, rolling over to his back, still grinning. "If you skived off two days in a row, I wouldn't know you anymore."

* * *

As they walked through the Ministry Atrium, holding hands, he replayed all the surreal feelings of the previous night… the way he'd woken so frantically to her gasping cries, the way she'd kissed him, how overwhelmed he had felt by being _home_. He'd always sensed that if he ever got the chance to really be with Hermione, it would change his entire perception of love. Not that he hadn't felt it anyway, before she'd kissed him that first time, years ago. But it had coexisted almost always with a twisted, sickening feeling of self-doubt, insecurity and fear. Actually _being_ with her had been so much more incredible than everything he thought he knew. And to have that back again… It was like taking your first breath of crisp, fresh air after nearly drowning.

They found an empty lift, and he leaned against the back wall as she let go of him to press the button for her floor. He couldn't stop staring at her, the way her long hair brushed her back, her tongue darting out to lick the corner of her mouth, and merely the thought of watching her work made his stomach flutter with nostalgia. He'd spent all of fifth and the _better_ part of sixth year at Hogwarts coming up with small excuses to sit closer, to lightly touch her leg, to lean over her shoulder to read something from the book in her lap. Now, he didn't have to hide what he was doing.

She turned to face him as they waited to arrive on her floor.

"I've just got a few things to check on at my office first, then we can leave early for lunch and go to Diagon Alley to get you a new wand. I've got that report to finish this afternoon, and we'd better check in with Harry in case-" She abruptly stopped speaking, staring up at him. "What?"

"Nothing. I'm listening," he smiled, but she studied him carefully in silence before taking a step closer.

"This might have been a _very_ bad idea," she finally said, slowly grinning back.

"What?"

"Bringing you to work with me." She rested her hands on his shoulders, pushed up to her toes, and kissed him, just as their lift jolted to a stop and announced their arrival.

"Lifts are way too fast," he muttered as she lowered herself back to her feet and laughed.

She took his hand and led him out the open doors, ignoring a few curious glances in the corridor from co-workers as they made their way back to a row of desks on the right and a wall of office doors on the left. She opened the third door and was about to lead him inside when a chipper voice called out.

"Morning, Hermione!"

Ron turned around to see a short woman with straight blonde hair and bright red lipstick walking toward them.

"Missed you yesterday," she added, glancing furtively between Ron and Hermione. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Wonderful, actually," Hermione said with a small smile. "Dawn, do you remember the wizard you told me about on Tuesday, the _maniac_ who was running through the Atrium?"

Ron turned to raise a brow at Hermione, noticing with amusement that she was trying to stifle a grin.

"Well, sure I do," Dawn said slowly, forehead creasing as she suspiciously looked at Ron again. Hermione laid her hand on his arm.

"This is him."

Dawn's eyes widened sharply, and she gasped.

"No, it is _not_!"

"Yes, it is. This is Ron Weasley. We thought he was dead. But he's…" she paused to sniff, and Ron turned his full attention to her suddenly trembling bottom lip. "Well, he isn't dead, is he," she concluded with a shaky laugh.

"Good Lord!" Dawn shouted, eyes still wide. "Oh, I've _got_ to tell Frankie about this… Do you need anything, Hermione? Either of you?"

Hermione shook her head as Dawn stared up at Ron, flustered and mildly apprehensive of him.

"Sorry if I scared you," he said. "Hadn't seen a bath or a razor in years."

Dawn laughed shrilly, shaking her head.

"Oh, _I_ didn't see you. My friend did, and she will _not_ believe this!"

Dawn turned quickly to rush away, presumably to find this Frankie person, Ron thought, as Hermione steered him quickly into her office and shut the door, leaning against it with a sigh.

"You okay?" he asked her.

"Mm hm. It just keeps… you know… hitting me. You're here."

Before he could reply, she crossed the small room to her desk and dropped her bag on the chair behind it.

"Oh," she said distractedly as she reached for a scroll on her desk, and Ron took a moment to glance around her tiny office.

Two full walls were stuffed with books, and boxes of files were stacked on either side of her desk. There was one extra chair in the corner to his right, but it was currently being used to house a box of quills and a neat stack of parchment sheets with an official looking department heading adorning the top.

"Harry's asking us to meet him already," Hermione said, holding the parchment she'd unrolled.

"Reckon he's got the date for the trial?" Ron considered in a mildly scratchy voice. He wasn't exactly worried - he was quite sure the outcome of the case would be in his favour - but the idea of being face to face with his captors again was slightly uncomfortable.

"Maybe. Should we go find out now?"

"Yeah, let's go."

* * *

Checking in with Harry turned into nearly three hours in the Auror offices, a good portion of which was spent with Hermione demanding to be allowed to attend the trial, which had been set for Tuesday morning. But, once the old files on Ron's 'murder' case were reopened in Clarke's office, Hermione was appeased by the indication that she would be called regardless, possibly to recount again what she'd seen that day, in light of the realisation that Ron was in fact alive and… relatively well. They'd finally left, around noon, heading into Diagon Alley.

"Have you been to Ollivander's since the war?" Ron asked as they walked past familiar yet updated shops, hand in hand.

"Once. Harry and I went by to check on him, but he'd managed quite well, actually. Got his shop repaired in a matter of weeks, he told us, in plenty of time for the new school term."

"Y'know…" but Ron paused, unsure if he should continue. He felt Hermione's gaze on his profile, and he wrinkled his nose. "My last wand's buried with the bloke you thought was me."

"I know, but would you really want it back?" she asked uncomfortably.

"Reckon not…" he said, though it struck him that someone _would_ soon have to identify the man buried in his place.

"Anyway, it was charred from the fire." She stopped for a moment and shook her head. "I still have nightmares from that day, but it wasn't even you."

"You mean you have since I've been back?" he asked, surprised. They'd hardly slept that first night, and the only interruption he'd sensed in her sleep the previous night had been that jolt when she'd thought she was with someone else...

"No, no, but recently," she clarified. "Maybe they'll go away now…"

"Hope so."

They'd reached Ollivander's shop, which was quite unsurprisingly empty, given the time of year. Ron opened the door and spotted Mr Ollivander at once, sorting through papers behind the front desk, looking a bit older than he had done, but otherwise quite well and definitely noticeably healthier than he'd been at Shell Cottage.

"Hello, Mr Ollivander," Hermione greeted as they approached the desk.

"Ah, Ms Granger, Mr Weasley." He adjusted his glasses and glanced between the two of them. "Come for repairs today, have you?"

"No," Hermione said, looking up at Ron.

"I need a new wand," Ron explained. "Long story, but mine's, uh, gone."

"Ah." Ollivander eyed him for a moment as if on the verge of asking questions, but it passed quickly, and he nodded. "Well, step closer and we'll see what we can do." He snapped his fingers and a familiar magical tape measure jumped to life, flitting around Ron and sliding under his arms.

Hermione watched, amused, as it stretched, recalibrated, and stretched some more to take in Ron's height.

"Hm, I do believe…" Ollivander began, pulling down a wand box as the tape measure curled up and collapsed to the desk. "Yes, let's try this one. Your last was made of willow, unicorn hair core, fourteen inches?"

"Yeah, that's it," Ron said, shaking his head in disbelief. "That's brilliant, you know, the way you can do that. How many wands have you sold, anyway? And you still remember the one you sold to me when I was thirteen."

"As you well know, Mr Weasley, every wand is destined for quite a unique journey," Ollivander said simply as he handed over the chosen wand to Ron.

But before Ron had even gotten a decent look at the wand in his hand, Ollivander shook his head and snatched it back.

"No, of course not," he said, to no one in particular.

Hermione exchanged a fascinated glance with Ron as Ollivander climbed up a rickety ladder and returned with a second wand, one that he clearly felt much more pleased to present.

"I suspect you'll find this one more agreeable," Ollivander said as he handed the wand to Ron.

At first, it felt strange and a bit cold, but it seemed to warm unnaturally fast as he held it up, inspecting it.

"Alder wood with a unicorn hair core, fourteen and a half inches," Ollivander remarked, watching with great interest as Ron cleared his throat.

"Lumos." The wand lit immediately, brighter even than his previous wand.

"How do you suppose you are with nonverbal magic?" Ollivander asked with that slightly unsettling smile of his, which made both Ron and Hermione blink across the desk at him.

"He's _brilliant_ ," Hermione said confidently. "Try something, Ron."

 _Nox_.

The wand tip went dark, and he pointed it at the tape measure still resting quite still on the desk.

 _Accio-_

He'd barely thought the word when the tape measure zoomed toward him, and he reacted just in time to catch it.

"Mr Weasley, I believe we've found your wand."

* * *

They stopped briefly to pick up some lunch, and Hermione had excitedly recalled how alderwood was considered one of the best options for strong nonverbal spellwork. She'd also made a quick list of all the additional things Ron might need, personal items that wouldn't be leftover from before he had gone. He hadn't had much of an opinion at all when she'd asked him if she'd left anything out, and she'd sadly assumed it was likely because he'd gone without a single thing for so long, locked up, that he wasn't used to _needing_ much of anything…

They set off down the alley again, and she was mentally reciting her list to see if there was anything she'd overlooked.

"Hermione," Ron started, as he shoved the final huge bite of a sandwich into his mouth, "d'we really hav'ta do all th'shopping t'day?"

She glanced sideways at him and arched an eyebrow at his garbled words.

"I don't see why not. What's the point putting it off if we're already here?"

He swallowed and stalled following her into Flourish & Blotts, causing her to turn back mid-step and stare at him.

"I'd say _this_ is the point," he argued, turning out his empty pockets.

"What, because you've been living in a dungeon for seven and a half years and haven't managed to make money at it?" She crossed her arms over her chest, and he sighed.

"I don't _need_ anything, so why-"

"Of course you do," she countered sharply.

"I really don't. I'm already living at your flat right now for free, and-"

"Oh my God, you've been back two days!"

A witch carrying several large bags of shopping approached the storefront, and Ron tugged Hermione's hand gently to pull her out of the doorway. He led them past the shop's windows to a stretch of blank brick wall, and she thought she probably should have seen this coming - money was always a bit of a sore spot - but wasn't this _different_? He hadn't fought her when she'd bought his wand, though she knew he'd try to pay her back as soon as he could.

"I'm not saying I won't let you help," he resumed quietly, "but I don't need quills and new trainers and all this rubbish."

"It's not rubbish," she sniffed weakly.

His thumb absentmindedly brushed across the back of her hand.

"What's up?" he asked cryptically, except she surprised herself by understanding him almost immediately.

"I don't know. I… I suppose it's the same as I said before… I want to feel like I'm helping, and this is all I can do."

"What?" A small, incredulous laugh escaped him, and he moved closer to the wall as more shoppers passed quickly by. "You've given me everything. That's why there's nothing I need, yeah?"

"What do you mean?"

"I was gonna die trying to get back to you. Now I'm standing here holding your hand and my trunk's in your bedroom."

"Ours."

"Yeah, exactly."

She stared up at him for a long moment. She hadn't even considered it before, but her apparent need to give him tangible things was just part of the process of fully accepting, honestly believing that he was truly there to stay. She had to learn to trust what was right in front of her. And she had to learn to trust that when she closed her eyes or turned her back, he wouldn't vanish.

"At least let me get you your own toothbrush," she offered softly.

"Yeah, alright," he laughed.

* * *

They'd returned to the Ministry by half one, and they'd mostly avoided her co-workers as she'd closed them in her office. She'd cleared off her extra chair for Ron, made them tea, and buried herself in a mountain of research for her most pressing report.

She felt it almost immediately, a deep familiarity sitting there with him, doing her work while he flipped through her notes. She had never thought so directly about it before, existing in their school days as an unconscious, natural thing. But it had been such a significant part of how she had worked, for so many years, and now, to have that again… It was alarmingly apparent just how much of an effort she'd had to make, every day, to ignore reality.

For a while, she got lost in what she was doing, filling out Ministry paperwork, supporting her claims with triple the necessary sources. But, as she paused to open a fresh inkwell, it became apparent in her periphery that Ron had given up distractions and was openly watching her. She looked up to find his eyes, startled by the difference between his sixth year gaze darting away, leaving her to wonder if she'd completely imagined him staring… and now, with all of that stripped away, letting her see the raw truth.

She studied the gently aged features of his wonderful face, feeling frizzy tendrils of her hair tickling her cheeks, having broken free from the messy bun she'd tied up at lunch. And he was staring right back at her with something that could only be described as longing. Without a word, she organised the parchment and books on her desk, slid them to the far left edge, chewed her bottom lip as she felt her heart beat faster.

She heard him breathe deeply, saw him rest his hands on the edge of her desk. How quickly they could go from the familiarity of years to frantically wanting each other. If only she'd told him when they were sixteen, what might have happened? What rules could they have broken?

* * *

He stood at the same time she did, leaning across her desk, grabbing her face and kissing her. The tips of her fingers disappeared in his hair at the nape of his neck, his thumbs extended up her cheeks, and her teeth dug into his lower lip. He felt her body moving closer, hardly aware of what she was doing until she had climbed on top of her desk and he had to tilt his head slightly back to keep kissing her.

"Wait, wait," she panted against his mouth, reaching for her wand, aiming it over his shoulder. He moved out of the way to the side of her desk as she locked and silenced the room, tossing her wand to her chair and grabbing his shirt collar as she scooted to the edge of her desk, on her knees.

He tilted his head back again as she looped her arms around his neck and pressed the front of her body to his. His right hand yanked her top free from her skirt in the back, fingers roaming up warm skin, the bony ridges of her spine. She was beautiful, she was perfect, she wasn't eating enough. His mum would fix that.

He grinned against her open mouth, her tongue ran along his upper lip, and she clawed at the back of his shirt, pulling it up til he had to lean away from her to rip it over his head and drop it to the floor. She began unbuttoning her shirt from the top, so he started at the bottom to meet her in the middle.

At one point in time, he would have placed bets that she wasn't the sort of person to shag her boyfriend on top of her desk, at the bloody Ministry, at three o'clock in the afternoon. But their hands met at her last button, and she laughed, letting him do it. They pushed her top down her arms, she dropped it to the floor, and his gaze locked on her thin, satin bra before she untucked her legs and draped them off the edge of her desk, on either side of his waist. And this was really happening.

He cupped her face in his hands again, bending his knees a bit and ducking down slightly to reach her lips now, a more familiar posture. Their nearly naked upper bodies collided, and he pushed his hips firmly against the edge of her desk, groaning, while she reached for his belt.

"Near the top of the list, I think," he muttered as she broke away the tiniest distance to breathe.

"What?" she exhaled, the clanging of metal and soft sounds of his zipper mingling with heavy, uneven breaths and his short laugh, realising how incomprehensible his words were.

"Fantasies," he clarified, staring at her swollen, parted lips. "Hogwarts bed, Prefect's bath, library, tabletop… Desktop counts."

"Library?" she grinned, sliding her hand down his stomach and into his pants.

"Fucking hell." His eyes slipped shut. "Yeah. S'what I wouldda done with the Room of Requirement your seventh year…"

"You never finished school. We could go back and tick off your list," she teased as he opened his eyes again and crushed her mouth with laughter, rubbing his hands up her bare thighs, bunching her skirt up to her waist.

His fingers curled over the waistband of her knickers, noticing how tiny they were, a bit of lacy something around the edges… He wanted to actually see what he was touching, but he abandoned the thought almost immediately as she lifted her arse for him to pull them off of her, down her legs, over her shoes to the floor.

He licked his lips and attacked her neck, blissfully closing his eyes. Her nails dug into his shoulder blades as she tilted her head further back, and he sucked a spot just below her ear until he realised he was leaving a mark. An apology was making its way up his raspy throat, but he was once again waylaid completely when she shoved his trousers and pants down and tugged him tightly between her legs with her heels on the backs of his thighs.

" _My_ Hogwarts bed, Quidditch lockers, the pond at the Burrow," she slurred as he pressed the tip of his nearly painful erection to her wet centre.

"Shit, those are good."

"Ron…"

"Yeah," he moaned in response as he thrust inside her.

She gasped and arched to press her chest tighter against his, and he felt so overwhelmed by how fucking incredible it was to be joined with her that he leaned forward and spread his large hands across her back, and she collapsed to lie down. As much as he'd wanted to make it perfect for her every time, he'd spent nearly two hours watching her bite her lip in concentration, ringlets of hair falling down from her bun to frame her lightly flushed face, and now her skin was _burning_ , clenching around him as he drove into her, pushing her body up the desk.

He leaned back and gripped her hips, tugging her to the edge of the desk again, and her heels locked around his waist. She reached out for him, and he let go of her waist to grab both of her hands, squeezing them maybe a bit too tight.

"Can't-" He shook his head, blindly attempting to resurface from feverish pleasure.

"Don't stop," she commanded in a heart-stoppingly firm voice, and that was his final breaking point. He let go of her hands, covered her body with his own again, buried his left hand in her hair, and nipped lightly at the red spot he'd made on her neck, eyes squeezing shut.

"Ermynee," he growled against her skin, pulsing inside her as she breathed hotly into his ear, whispering words he couldn't make out.

Her chest moved dramatically as she breathed under the weight of his body, and he relaxed his back and arms as his pulse slowed.

He really didn't want to move, but he could tell that the edge of her desk was digging into her thighs, and she finally shifted underneath him. He lifted his face from her neck, skin flushed and lips parted. But then he raised an arching brow, taking a moment to comprehend what he was seeing, just over her head.

"What?" she asked, twisting slightly to look up, though she'd never be able to see what he could from her angle.

Realisation dawned, and his lips curled up into an apologetic grin.

"Uh…" He leaned back and untangled his left hand from her hair… Three of his fingers were stained black. "Sorry."

He watched her figure it out, as he had done, and she gasped, sitting up quickly and tugging at her hair, now completely chaotically released from the elastic that had been trying to hold it together. Glancing sharply back to the desktop, she spotted her inkwell lying on its side, a black puddle across her desk, soaking through a blank sheet of parchment.

"Fuck, your notes."

He hitched up his trousers to his waist and rather comically walked up between her chair and her desk to snatch her pile of paperwork and books up in his arms, seconds before her spilled ink would surely have soaked into them. His trousers slid back down his thin legs, and her fiercely flushed face watched him with grateful amusement. He dropped the lot to her chair and attempted to properly fasten his belt, trying to avoid touching anything with his three ink-stained fingers as she hopped off her desk and tugged her skirt down over her thighs.

"Here," she offered, smiling. She moved his hands away from his belt and successfully fastened it for him, pulling a bit too tight.

"Oi!"

"Sorry," she grinned, licking her lips as she let go. She retrieved her wand from her chair and turned to face the settled pool of ink. "I think you saved everything important."

"Yeah, except your hair," he pointed out, tilting his head to survey the black stain in her curls.

She swished her wand at her desk and the ink disappeared, siphoning off the blank parchment as well. He had a quick flashback to her saving an essay for him at school after an ink spill, and he smiled euphorically, still feeling a bit shaky in the best way from shagging her.

"C'mere."

She turned to face him again and stepped closer, and he was briefly distracted by the slight visibility of her hardened nipples through her thin bra. He cleared his throat and rested a hand on her shoulder, turning her slightly away from him and retrieving his wand from his back pocket, aiming for the stain. He couldn't be sure he'd removed it all at a quick glance, but the idea of showering together later was far more appealing than performing flawless magic, so he shrugged and she gathered her hair into a ponytail as he searched the floor for the rest of their clothes.

As if timed perfectly not to interrupt them, for the first time in recorded history he was sure, someone knocked on her office door just as she'd finished buttoning her top. She flicked her wand to unlock and unsilence the room as Ron resumed his place in the chair opposite her desk and tried to look like he'd been there awhile…

Hermione opened the door to reveal Harry standing on the other side.

"Oh hi, Harry! Come in!"

Ron tried hard not to snigger at the overly chipper tone she had adopted, noting that Harry wasn't buying it either. Fortunately, he didn't mention it…

"Charlie's arriving tonight," Harry announced, glancing over at Ron. "Ginny flooed a few minutes ago."

"Oh, cheers. You alright going back to the Burrow, Hermione?"

"Of course," she smiled, moving her notes and books from her chair to her desktop and settling back to her work.

"Don't forget your knickers," Harry muttered with a badly concealed grin as he darted back out of her office, and Hermione's face turned scarlet as she caught sight of the _red_ lacy things Ron had forgotten on the floor.

* * *

It had taken _all_ his willpower not to pester her for the remaining two and a half hours she'd spent actually trying to get shit done. But by six o'clock, they were Apparating straight to the Burrow, almost instantly spotting Charlie by the front porch.

"Bloody unbelievable," he called out as they approached, clapping his arms tightly around Ron and shaking his head as he laughed.

Dinner was loud and boisterous, exactly as expected with nine Weasleys and their families under one roof again. But, by the time the final rays of sunlight were fading below the horizon, Ron managed to lead Hermione quietly outside with him, not even trying to find an excuse to want her with him, everywhere. She sat on the front steps, and he twirled his new wand between his fingers, thinking of the happiest memories he could. The most amazing realisation came when he couldn't decide which to select from nearly every single moment since he'd been back. He focused, at last, on a simple one, sleepily brushing his fingers through Hermione's hair as he'd held her while she'd slept the previous night.

"Expecto Patronum."

His Jack Russell emerged happily and flitted through the air in an excited circle.

"This wand's brilliant," he concluded, as Hermione walked quietly up beside him, touching his arm and lifting her own wand as she closed her eyes, smiling.

"Expecto Patronum."

Her otter danced free, and they watched as Ron's terrier chased it several metres in one direction before skidding and turning to continue following it the opposite way. Ron thought back to his memories of the first days they'd been able to produce them, trying to recall their behaviour then. But it was so much more clear to him now, what it all meant, as his Patronus continued to playfully chase Hermione's through the cool night air.

"Reckon they planned this?" he asked quietly, as Hermione linked her arm with his and nodded, sniffing lightly.

"We were _sixteen_ , Ron," she said hoarsely, and he smiled down at her, understanding. They'd said it many times before, a marker of the age where things had really been noticeably different. But, just then, nearly a decade later, it seemed almost unbelievable.

"Knew what I wanted before then, y'know," he said, more sure than he'd ever been of anything.

"So did I."


	15. 7 Years, 6 Months, 7 Days

_**A/N:** Wow. Hey. Geez. Let's get this fic done, yes? Two more chapters after this one, I think... I had to split it again. It got out of control._

 _So, this opening scene. Surprisingly, this is only the second time (I think?) I have ever written this particular variety of smut scene! *hides behind sofa* I've still somehow managed to not say very many Actual Words. I hope it makes sense and that you enjoy it? If enjoy is the right way to phrase that..._

 _Warning that this chapter is basically a long smutty interlude, 6K words of mild angst, fluff and shagging..._

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIFTEEN:**

 **7 Years, 6 Months, 7 Days  
Saturday, 19 November, 2005**

They were standing in the shower together at midnight, her back toward him, and he was trying his absolute best to concentrate on finding any remaining ink stains in her hair, rather than on the fact that she was completely naked and coated in soapy water… His hands massaged shampoo through her curls, and she tilted her head slightly forward, sighing.

"Found a bit," he finally said in a gravelly voice that blended under the rush of water from the shower, and he couldn't be sure she'd heard him.

He lifted dripping hair off her neck in a loose fist, and thick suds ran grey down her back. He rubbed his thumb at the base of her skull, washing the stubborn smudge of ink clean, before admitting to himself that he'd run out of tasks as he dropped her hair to her back again and stared. For a while, they stood there in silence, not touching, until she turned around, heavily lidded eyes gazing up at him through long, wet lashes.

"Are you happy?" she asked softly, and he was so confused by the question at first that he remained quite speechless. Finally, he licked warm water off his lips and smiled lopsidedly.

"Yeah, 'course I am," but why did she even have to ask? Couldn't she see it, feel it, hear it every time he spoke to her? But then he _really_ thought about it. Happy? Could everything he felt be contained in that word? Of course it couldn't.

Where might they be now if he'd never been taken away, if he'd been with her all those years they'd lost? Would they still be right there, just the same? Yes. They would. And the fact that he knew they'd still be together so many years on wasn't really something he'd looked at before. It just was. It just _had been_.

The truth was, he'd never expected to take things slowly after all they'd been through, how close they'd been well before that first kiss. She wasn't someone he'd fancied, snogged, then wanted to get to know. He'd kissed her back the way he had, so long ago, because he'd already known it was the last first kiss he'd ever wanted to have. In a way, that daunting knowledge had been a big part of what had kept him from kissing her sooner. But, somehow, their forced _years_ of separation had stretched the few short days he'd been back to fill every second they'd missed. He found himself still almost desperate for life the way it should have been, even knowing that he now _had_ it, that there was nothing else to silently long for, to lie awake late nights and envision, afraid he'd die first, or she wouldn't feel the same way… It was locking that securely in his mind, replacing fear with a perfect reality that had not quite sunk in. Happy was a poor choice of words.

It didn't matter though. It was the word she'd spoken, and he needed to hear her say it, too.

"Are _you_?" he asked, his smile wavering only slightly.

"More than I ever thought I could be," she answered in a hoarse, shaky voice, as if she might cry. He'd seen too much of that recently, but he reckoned happy tears were alright, something he'd discovered he actually knew how to face better than he'd ever known how to approach angry, hurt, disappointed...

And, just then, he knew where it all was going, where that deeply aching feeling of longing poured itself out. Before, it had all been directed toward the unknown, to a type of restraint that had almost suffocated him for months of rain pattering on a canvas tent. Now, it was quite the opposite, an addiction of every sense, overflowing and infinite.

He cupped her face and ducked to kiss her, tasting a faint hint of floral soap on her lips. She pressed her warm body against his, slick skin sliding over his as she stood up on her toes, arms around his neck. The sweetest moans flowed softly between their mouths, her light, airy voice, and his deep, vibrating replies. He reckoned it would take him the rest of his life to get used to how amazing this was, to be with her like this.

There was that _thing_ he'd slowly discovered, and perhaps they'd belonged together for some mysterious version of eternity, only he'd somehow taken this bloody long to realise. He'd long ago caught himself with her voice inside his head or her laugh echoing in his ears, and he'd brush it away, because they'd shared so much anyway, with Harry. Because he was fifteen and _couldn't_ be in love. Because he was sixteen and full of jealousy and insecurity and self-destruction. But seventeen, eighteen… he'd have died for her, he didn't care if she knew.

It alarmingly struck him that he was now twenty-five, and yet he could easily count the short number of days they'd actually spent together, properly _together_ , since their first kiss. She pulled back from kiss number- bloody hell, he'd lost count of that, at least. She stared up at him with a determined, studious look, lightly bathed in shyness.

He wanted her, so much, and he'd thought he'd known how that had felt, before. So many years ago. But this, having her, it had not produced the logical dampening of painfully, beautifully burning flames. It had ignited the rest, instead, everything he'd held himself back from saying, thinking, feeling.

"I want to-" she breathed, pausing to swallow. "Could I try something?"

"Hm?"

She chewed her bottom lip nervously, and he let go of her.

"Yeah, go on," he added, curious.

Her eyes drifted down, she stared directly at his chest, cheeks flushed. Then, she pressed her right hand to the wall… and dropped to her knees.

His eyes flew wide open, and he might have pulled a muscle in his neck from how fast he looked down at the top of her head, now level with his waist.

"Tell me… if I'm doing this wrong," she requested, muffled by the sound of the shower.

" _What-_ "

She leaned forward, and her mouth closed gently around him, slid so slowly up… and he accidentally bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.

Two tracks ran furiously inside his mind. The first was simply a wide array of positively filthy words, incoherently (yet creatively) strung together. The second was a repetition of newly discovered fact that fully revolved around her shy request that he should _correct her_. Evidently… she hadn't done this before.

He felt her inhale shakily through her nose, and he pressed his left palm to the wall for support, and it was literally comical to think that he'd ever ask her to change a fucking thing about what she was doing. His right hand quickly got lost in her hair, and he alternated between groaning with his eyes closed and watching as water rushed down her back and bare arse. They'd spent quite a lot of time in each other's naked company over the course of the last three days, but this was-

Honestly, _truthfully_ , he hadn't actually thought about _this_ in years. Late at night, her mouth on a quill tip. Slowly sipping from a cup of too-hot tea. Fucking chocolate on her lip once when he'd given her a frog at midnight, in the Common Room, and she'd rolled her eyes but eaten it anyway. Even imagining her damn toothbrush in her mouth because he'd known she'd have to brush again from all that sugar…

Presently, he was about five seconds from losing the use of his legs.

She moved back from him, _dragging_ her mouth away- _bleeding hell_.

"Is this alright?" she shivered.

"What?! God. You're-you're. Yeah. Fuck, amazing."

He shook his head, giving up any effort to form complete sentences.

"Okay." He heard her smile, and she resumed her previous activities with slightly more confidence… and tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut and cursed fluidly.

Within seconds, he let go of her hair and tried to string four straightforward words together. He wanted this to last for maybe forever, but he was facing the fact that _forever_ was much more likely to actually be less than a minute…

"Maybe… you should… stop," he forced out, jaw clenched.

She tilted her head back and glanced up at him… and he couldn't breathe.

"Bloody hell," he choked. "Seriously… If you don't, I'm gonna-"

He cut himself off abruptly as she reached for his right forearm, slid her hand down to his wrist, and closed her eyes. His left hand slipped a few inches down the wall, and he reckoned he'd done about all he could to warn her.

For a few blissful seconds, he was solely consumed by physical feelings, and she seemed to _want_ him to do it. So, he did.

His eyes rolled shut, he was probably gripping her hair a bit too tight, and he had to brace himself with his whole left forearm stuck to the wall, tensing muscles shaking to keep steady as he came in her mouth.

Finally, slowly, she backed away from him, and reality set in fully. He deliriously and slightly guiltily watched her swallow and wipe her lips with the side of her hand. She let go of his wrist, and he slumped back against the wall behind him. But once she'd balanced and stood, she looked up at him with the most gorgeously flushed face and tentative smile.

"Can't fucking believe you just did that," he panted.

His dumbstruck expression morphed to giddy laughter as she bit her bottom lip.

"Your turn…" he added, and she leaned forward, adorably hiding her grin against his chest.

* * *

He flinched sharply awake, and, for a moment, the dark room around him was made of steel and granite, buried underground-

-until he felt Hermione's body, half on top of him, her leg overlapping his and her arm across his bare chest.

He closed his eyes again, forcing out a heavy sigh of relief. But he _had_ been back there, just then, inside his head. So real for a moment. The room where he'd been meant to die, alone.

He tried to relax and fall asleep again, but her mattress felt like marshmallow, as if his body was sinking fully down into it, so soft that he'd soon be encased, trapped… Why did he now feel so suffocated by the pleasant, gentle things he'd longed for when his bed had been made of solid stone?

He breathed deeply, searching for a grounding seed of truth. They were safe. He was home. He had his whole life to sort out the rest. He could sleep now. The world would wait. But, as minutes ticked by, as the quiet room enveloped him, he accepted that sleep wouldn't come. So, he just lay there, in the dark, calmed by focusing on Hermione's gentle, almost inaudible breaths.

* * *

She woke slowly, feeling his chest rise and fall rhythmically underneath her. For several silent seconds, she didn't move, didn't want to disturb the quiet peace of dawn, pinkish-gray light floating softly in from the window. But then she noticed - his fingertips were trailing ever so lightly, almost without conscious direction, over her forearm. Now fully aware, she could sense his tense muscles, like he'd been bracing for something. He was awake, but he shouldn't be this early. She knew he'd often sleep deep into the morning - even the early afternoon - if left on his own…

"Ron?" Her sleepy voice cracked on his name as she lifted her head from his shoulder to find his eyes - open, as she'd guessed.

"Hey. Did I wake you?" His expression was unfortunately quite blank, and her slow, slumbering heartbeat sped up to match her mounting anxious thoughts.

"No," she answered quickly, propping up on her elbow to properly look at him. "What's wrong?"

"Mm… nothing, really."

She raised a brow, licked her bottom lip… and definitely didn't believe him.

" _Honestly_?"

His lips finally tugged up toward a small smile.

"Your mattress is bloody soft," he said, and she blinked at him.

"What? That's really why you can't sleep? I'll fix it." She sat all the way up and moved to slide out of bed for her wand, but he gripped her hand to stop her.

"Don't change it. Want to get used to it."

She stared back over her shoulder at him, torn between wanting him to be comfortable and feeling quite pleased to hear him confirm again that he was there for good. How could she have any doubts, anyway? She certainly didn't doubt that he loved her. Maybe doubt was the wrong word. Maybe it was just always good to hear him say it again, even though she knew it completely.

But, as she rested next to him again, it occurred to her. Her mattress wasn't particularly soft, no more than average, surely. But… as of four days ago, Ron hadn't slept in a real bed since the 11th of May in 1998.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she whispered to his bare shoulder.

"F'what?" he slurred, rolling to his side to fully face her.

"I know why you can't sleep on a soft bed. And even though I wanted you to talk about it, I think I've been trying not to imagine exactly how it…" she paused to suck in a breath, attempting to keep her voice level, "how it actually was for you."

"Reckon I've been properly distracted, too," he grinned, raising his brows a bit as she shifted her bare legs closer to his under their thin sheet.

"You don't have to talk to me," she continued, ignoring his teasing tone to keep the conversation serious. "But don't you think you should talk to someone?" She was often a bit too stubborn perhaps, but surely he couldn't simply ignore trauma of the magnitude he must have experienced.

"What, like a healer?"

"Maybe. I don't know… and I feel like I might not know the right things to say… or how to help-"

"Don't worry so much," he interrupted, too casually.

"Alright, I just won't then…" she huffed, almost rolling her eyes.

"I'd rather talk to you," he sighed back, and she felt her chest lighten just a bit, "but I haven't got anything to say right now, have I."

"Surely you've been thinking about _something_ , lying here awake _…_ "

She was pushing too hard, but it was habit, after so many years, and she didn't know how to break it. _Ron_ had been able to stop her though, those times she'd taken it too far with Harry. They'd had countless private rows about it, but her memories of those now felt much more positive than she'd preferred to have believed back then. Reluctantly, she could now admit that he'd probably been right more often than she had…

"Dunno," he muttered, gaze drifting away from her face.

But the truth was, aside from a few particularly dark moments, or stretches of time during their worst rows, Ron simply wasn't Harry. He didn't respond the same way, didn't _usually_ brood and hold things in. She'd always loved that about him, honestly, excited by the fact that he needed their fiery conversations as much as she did, even if they had argued about the wrong thing to cover the truth. But this was different. This wasn't playfully rowing about revisions or Prefect duties.

"I know what you're doing," he finally said, giving her a lovingly exasperated half-grin as he met her eyes again. She raised her brows before answering.

"What am I doing?"

"Wondering if you can fight with me to get me to talk."

"How-" She abruptly stopped speaking for a moment to shake her head atop her pillow, shocked. "How could you know that?"

"It's bloody obvious. Saw that same look on your face a thousand times when Harry was being an arse."

Her surprised expression and raised brows morphed to a fond smile.

"Is it possible we know each other _too_ well?"

"Only if it bothers you," he shrugged, yawning. "Definitely doesn't bother me."

Of course it didn't bother her, but it also made her realise, as she should have done sooner, that she had a pretty good guess as to why he was really awake.

"You had a nightmare, didn't you, of being back in that- that awful room."

"You're not bad at guessing either," he said quietly, and she watched his neck move in the muted morning light as he swallowed.

"In the tent, I could always tell when you'd had a bad dream. You'd lie there, so tense, hardly moving in your bed, but I knew you were awake."

"I could tell yours by the sound of your breathing," he said. "Sort of sharp and muffled, like you were afraid someone would hear. I'd lie there wanting to say something, but…"

"I did a good job making you think I hated you, didn't I."

"Good reason."

"Not good enough for months of it. I missed you terribly. And you didn't deserve how cold I was."

"'Course I did. Bloody glad it didn't last forever though."

She moved a bit closer, encouraged by his hand sliding around to her back.

"Still not used to this," he said in a low, scratchy voice, roaming gaze and fingertips indicating her current state of undress.

"Me either," she agreed on a shaky breath, shifting her head across their pillow until the tip of her nose touched his.

For quite a long time, they simply looked at each other as his hand painted gooseflesh across her cool skin, sliding down her arm, over her hip, up her spine. At last, his mesmerising movements ceased, long fingers entwined with her hair.

"What should we do today?" she asked softly.

"Anything. Nothing," he smiled. "Doesn't matter to me."

"Surely you've missed something you'd like to do now you're back, or there's something you never had the chance to do before."

"Mm…" and she thought he was seriously thinking about it until his lips twitched. "We could stay in bed and shag til Monday morning, if that's what you mean."

She closed her eyes and shook her head in mock offense, made even more unbelievable by her laughter.

Seconds later, an interruption arrived in the form of a persistent tapping on the window. Ron blinked at her, both of them clearly unwilling to move.

"Accio owl?" he teased, raising a brow.

"Alohomora, _obviously_ ," she corrected. "The window's locked."

"I love you," he grinned, and she felt her face heat considerably, but he gave in and moved first to get up, shoving a hand through his hair as he stood and searched the floor for his pants. Pulling them on with a yawn, he crossed around the foot of the bed, tugged back the thin curtains, and unlatched the window to reveal Harry's grey owl, who swooped immediately inside to land on Hermione's bedside table.

Hermione sat up, sheet held loosely over her chest, and watched as Ron took the scrap of parchment from the owl and scanned it.

"From Harry or Ginny?" she asked.

"Harry. Addressed to both of us. Is this his owl?" Ron briefly inspected the pretty bird who was waiting rather patiently, quite a contrast to Pigwidgeon.

"Mm hm. He's had him a couple years now."

Ron glanced back down at the parchment in his hand and sat on the edge of the bed to read it as Hermione moved to look over his shoulder. She felt his back shake almost instantly as he laughed, before she'd comprehended the words on the page.

 _Ron & Hermione,_

 _I thought of coming round in person, but I don't fancy a repeat of Ginny's experience when she let herself in the other day… Assuming you feel like putting clothes on long enough for it, would you be up for a fly this afternoon?_

 _Harry_

"Oh, God." Hermione groaned as she finished reading, face burning. "Harry's writing cheeky notes now, too."

"He's got a point, though," Ron grinned. "We were both starkers til a second ago."

She dropped her lips to Ron's bare shoulder and smiled.

"Do you want to meet him?" she muttered to his warm skin.

"Only if you'll come with me."

"Of course I will. I actually missed flying with you."

"Seriously?"

She glanced up as he turned his head in an awkward attempt to look at her, so she looped her arms around his neck and leaned further over his shoulder, meeting his excited eyes and nodding.

"I missed everything," she whispered, determined not to cry again as his playful expression melted, his hand cupped her cheek, and he kissed her softly.

* * *

The afternoon air was thick with wintery fog, making for quite a brisk fly. But despite the weather, Ron hadn't fully considered how much he'd missed being high up on a broom til he was in the middle of doing it, Hermione's arms holding him round the waist in a death grip.

"You sure you're okay?" he called back toward her as he slowed down a bit, lagging behind Harry.

"Just don't make any s-sudden movements," she shivered, firmly pressing her cheek between his shoulder blades.

"Y'know I can hold onto you if you sit in front of me-"

"It's f-fine."

"Cold?" He could just hear her teeth chattering, and he reckoned it might not be too hard to get his jacket off without having to land, if she'd let go of him long enough to-

"Stop w-worrying about me."

"And how'd that go when I said that to you this morning?" he quickly shot back.

He could practically feel her rolling her eyes.

"Just keep flying," she instructed stiffly. "I'll t-tell you when I want to go back down."

He briefly clutched her arms around his waist in what he hoped was a reassuring way before repositioning his right hand on his broom, in front of his left.

"Damn fog. Gonna go faster for a second, yeah? We're losing Harry." He felt her nod sharply against his back before he sped up, and he nearly shut his eyes with elation as rushing wind whipped familiarly through his hair.

Harry's back swam quickly into view as Ron caught up to him.

"I was about to turn around and look for you," Harry said as Ron fell into pace beside him. "Let's get above the fog. Alright, Hermione?"

"Hang on," Ron said before she could respond, and Harry followed Ron's lead, slowing to a hover. "Hermione, take Harry's arm for a second."

"Why?" but she did what he'd said, not waiting for his explanation. He would have teased her for giving in so easily if he hadn't been trying to work fast.

Awkwardly twisting around, he managed to free his arms from his jacket and hand it back to her.

"Won't you be cold?" she asked, but she was already shoving her own arms into the pre-warmed jacket.

"Nah, I'm good. Better now?" he asked in a rough whisper as she fiercely gripped him around the ribs again. He felt her sigh, but could hear her smiling as she replied.

"Alright, _fine…_ Much better, yes, thank you."

"Right. Let's go, mate."

Harry led them zooming upward, until they emerged from the last smoky wisps of fog to a wide view of an overcast world, the ground below mostly cloaked from sight. And though he'd recognise the Burrow's fields for life, the subtle changes that had taken place since he'd last flown high above them - the growth of trees, a minutely altered horizon line - washed over him, quite bittersweet.

Hermione's grip relaxed slightly, and he could feel her breathing against his back. He couldn't count the number of times he'd flown with Harry - a Quidditch game or a carefree afternoon over the summer. But Hermione… she was doing this for him. He couldn't feel her shaking any longer, and he easily released a hand from his broom to reach for hers. He was hit with a wave of overwhelmed happiness, frequently familiar now, and his eyes watered, tears held back from falling by flying faster.

* * *

It went against her nature to enjoy this, as little experience as she had with flying, due to her own disinterest and quite moderate fear. But she had always loved to watch him do it, fifth and sixth year Quidditch only offset by a tinge of loneliness that he wasn't with her in the stands. When Harry had played for Gryffindor, before Ron had joined up, it had been a lovely excuse for a long stretch of a Saturday spent alone, together.

Now, the choice between watching him zip happily through the sky above her or joining him there had been simple. The fog below diminished her fear somewhat, and she focused on his body heat, his hair tangling in the wind, and the lopsided smile she caught glimpses of as he turned his head.

His long fingers wrapped around her hand, and she softly closed her eyes.

Sometime later, when she opened her eyes again, she felt her stomach plummet, jolting higher still and soaring in a wide circle. She matched her breath to Ron's, silently thankful again for his stubbornness and the warmth of his jacket.

* * *

If there was one primary benefit to nearly freezing to death whilst flying what she had come to reason had been _terribly_ high up, it was the resulting evening spent wrapped up in multiple blankets on the sofa with Ron. He'd stripped off his jumper and blissful body heat radiated through his thin cotton shirt. His arm was tucked tightly around her waist, and she was making a very distracted attempt to read a new book as he listened to Quidditch on the wireless.

A quarter of an hour on, she considered giving up, and she was noticing that, while he hadn't spoken yet, his gaze kept drifting to her profile, close enough once that his nose almost brushed against her temple.

At last, her lips curled up into an amused smile and she closed her book without even saving her place, shoving it down to the opposite end of the sofa and tucking her legs up, leaning heavily against Ron's left side.

"Why'd you stop reading? Am I distracting you?"

"Yes." Her smile spread, but she knew he couldn't see it as she burrowed further against him, deeper under their blankets.

"Sorry. We can turn this off," he suggested, gesturing toward the wireless. "I wasn't really paying attention, anyway."

"No, don't," she said, secretly enjoying his guessing game as she contentedly closed her eyes.

"Well… how was I bothering you, then?"

She sensed a hint of feigned ignorance in his question actually, which familiarly implied that he was pushing her to choose between annoyance and answering him straight on. She couldn't properly count the number of times, during their history together, that she'd gone with the former out of fear or embarrassment. Now, she could confidently choose a third option that had not yet existed back then… If only she'd known how good it could be to play this way instead, certain of their feelings for each other.

"How do you _think_?" she mumbled, raking her fingernails lightly up his thigh. He softly cleared his throat.

"Am I actually supposed to guess?"

"Do you need to?"

She twisted to glance up at him, cheek against his shoulder, eyes locking with his. His grin made her stomach flip, and she lifted her head from his shoulder completely, shifted around on her knees to face him directly. The blankets they'd been sharing slid off her shoulders and dropped partly to the floor. His eyes darted briefly down to her thin vest, then back up as he gave her an adorably apologetic shrug.

"You're bothering me, too," he said in a softly wavering, low voice.

Her cheeks burned pleasantly, and she suddenly wondered why she'd even put on her pyjama shorts, after taking off her jeans. Without another word, she slid her left leg over his lap and kissed him, settling her arse on top of his thighs as both his hands lightly clawed up her back to grip her vest in his fists. His body vibrated with a deep moan, and the sounds of the Quidditch commentator over the wireless faded to the distant background.

She'd imagined kissing him so very many times, both before she'd known what it was like and all those years after. After, and with practical knowledge, she could imagine so much more clearly, and with much more assumed accuracy. But _this_ was the sort of kiss they had never shared before in their short time together. This sort of kiss was intimate on a level she had never envisioned. It wasn't just desperate… but _promising_ and _knowing_. They would never be apart again.

Her hand slid up his chest as she moaned, as his tongue touched hers, teeth lightly scraping her upper lip. His hand moved to the back of her head, long fingers curving around her scalp, through thick curls. She touched his neck and fell into him, encouraging as much contact as was physically possible, and his left arm tightened around her lower back before sliding up… then back down to dip under her shirt, shakily gliding over bare skin.

He'd been back merely a short breath of days that now felt like the _only_ ones. She was so tuned to everything about him that they returned to each other like the fade between changing seasons or a deep inhale after a pause. Surely the years had only been a moment, a quick blink, forgotten darkness.

She pulled back and gasped to speak, his eyes searching hers, but her lips curved to a wordless grin instead, and she felt him sigh as he tugged her vest up her sides, four hands and a tornado of hair as she helped him pull it over her head and toss it to the floor. She gripped his arm and tipped them sideways onto the sofa, both laughing as he scrambled long legs between hers, and she shifted to her back, awkwardly pulling her shorts and knickers off as he yanked his shirt over his head from the back. He unbuckled his belt, but then seemed suddenly overwhelmed, bracing his hands on the sofa cushions and covering her with his body, eyes slipping shut, open mouths slowly aligning at exactly the same moment as they sighed into each other.

He hadn't shaved again since he'd been back with her, and she touched the rough stubble across his jaw with her fingertips, lips joined in mesmerising rhythm, his warm body weighing down on top of her.

His mouth finally drew back agonisingly away from hers, still so close as they opened their eyes that their breaths were mingled as one. Then he quietly sat back between her legs again, igniting gooseflesh across her skin as his large hands swept over her body. And there was a strip of light streaking across his face from the kitchen window, highlighting freckles and something that might have been an old bruise lightly fading on his cheekbone.

Their lengthy eye contact as he touched her made her blush, kiss-swollen lips curling up to a grin which he mirrored, and then they were laughing again. He retreated to finish removing his trousers and boxers, collapsing halfway back on the opposite end of the sofa, and her continued laughter punctuated an advertisement that had roared musically to life on the wireless she'd forgotten.

At last fully undressed, he crawled between her legs again and gripped her thighs to pull her closer, her head sliding off the arm of the sofa so she was lying flat on her back. He ducked over her to take a nipple into his mouth, and her body was instantly flooded with pleasure. Her left leg climbed torturously up his arm, and he shifted so his palm was pressed flat to the sofa by her arse, her leg hooked over his bicep. His lips worked across to her other breast, mumbling to her skin.

"Can't believe I get to do this…"

"Can't believe you want to," she sighed, and he lifted his head to pointedly narrow his eyes at her, followed by a lopsided smirk. She didn't need him to say what he was thinking, even with as much doubt as she'd twisted into their past, before she'd known how he felt.

His mouth attached to her chest again and she closed her eyes, noticing how he reacted to every involuntary sound she made, every movement under him, learning what she wanted. He traveled down over her ribs, kissing her stomach as she arched a bit off the sofa at the loss of his warmth covering her torso. He briefly lifted his head to swipe his fringe back from his eyes, and she took the opportunity to change his plans, grabbing ahold of his hand before he could replace it on the sofa and pulling it up by the side of her head so he had to lean forward again, parallel to her body and the tips of their noses almost touching.

She bravely reached down and wrapped her cool hand around his erection, and he groaned low as his eyes fluttered momentarily shut.

"Can't believe I get to do _this_ ," she whispered, and his grin spread wide across his face before he lowered his mouth to hers.

His right palm skipped up the sofa cushion, and her leg was still hooked over his arm, dragged up and wider by his movement. Shakily breathing through her nose to avoid having to break their kiss, she shifted her hips so he pushed up just barely inside her, and her lower abdomen tensed pleasurably with anticipation. Her tongue swiped across his, and she felt his muscles tremble, his hand clenching the sofa cushion as he moved slowly forward, fully into her.

A beautiful heat radiated from their joined bodies, and she forgot the chill from earlier. His left forearm took on his weight so his right could skate down her hip and around the curve of her arse, and she rocked her hips against his as he moved inside her, finding a calm, building rhythm that kept their bodies pressed tightly together, lips sliding between each other's in relaxed, passionate kisses.

After a bit, his breathing became quite unsteady, and he finally withdrew his mouth, stringing a series of muttered curses together and ducking his forehead to her shoulder. A feeling of pulsing warmth filled her wonderfully, but before she could speak, he slid out of her and down her body.

"Hermione…" he panted, dragging his mouth over her chest and stomach, further down, between her legs.

"Oh _…_ " she breathed, as he reached his goal and stroked her with his tongue. " _Ron_."

Her left leg slid limp off the side of the sofa, and he shakily gripped her right thigh to haul it over his shoulder. She was hardly aware of her own movements as she attempted to alter the angle of his mouth on her, crying out a moan and clenching his hair in her fist as he found the best spot. She could feel him swallow and possibly mutter something against her in a tone of appreciation before his free hand covered her breast.

She concentrated fully on the way he felt and on the gorgeous rolling of his back and shoulder muscles, his flame of tousled hair, and the tendons in the back of his hand, still holding her thigh in place. She gasped suddenly and tossed her head back, whimpering as waves of pleasure shot through her. She could still feel him breathing against her, quite heavy now, until she clasped his head too tight between her legs, and he attempted an escape.

"Sorry," she muttered, but he was sleepily grinning at her and his hair was sticking up in all directions as he sat back and collapsed, eyes slipping shut and chest moving dramatically up and down.

Eventually regaining the use of her limbs, she pushed up and crawled over next to him, resting on her knees. She reached up to trace the bones of his face with a gentle fingertip, and he smiled again, exhausted.

"Take away?" he finally asked, cracking open an eye as she laughed.

* * *

His arm was wrapped adorably around her shoulders as they walked, and she would gladly give up proper balance under his height difference in exchange for him never moving away. He yawned contentedly, and she tightened her arm around his waist as a wintry breeze blew down the road. The misty evening had frizzed her hair ruthlessly, but she didn't have the capacity to care. Three days, and everything had changed. Nothing could take that away from them again.

 _Nothing_.

She repeated the thought to make it real, pushing fear as far away as she could manage. Nothing.


	16. 7 Years, 6 Months, 8 Days

**A/N:** _OMG, hi! This is finally about to get wrapped up. I have to admit this chapter got out of hand and is now split in two, but there should only be the second half of this and one more final chapter after that left to go. I'll warn you the ending to this one sounds angsty, but don't worry. Also, I have chosen to cut away rather than meticulously write a particular scene which you may notice. I personally would have found the information redundant and liked the idea of doing one of my favorite movie gimmicks - a "smash cut." If this isn't making sense to you right now (lol), hopefully it will once you've read it! :)_

 _Gah, I love these two characters. I have seriously missed spending time with them every day. I hope you enjoy this update, and I'll see you again for the second half in a week or two! xx_

* * *

 **CHAPTER SIXTEEN:**

 **7 Years, 6 Months, 8 Days**

 **Sunday, 20 November, 2005**

She'd begun to move things around, emptying two drawers for his clothes, shifting boxes inside her wardrobe, hanging an extra towel in the loo. He'd been sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, not wearing a shirt and sifting through his trunk, occasionally making a sound of pleased recognition to discover an item he'd forgotten was his.

She'd just passed by him to light a lantern on the bedside table, another foggy day producing little natural light, when he sucked in a sharp breath. He was holding a sheet of parchment in his hand, expression almost unreadable.

"You _did_ find it…" he said in a low, scratchy voice.

She stepped curiously closer, and then she suddenly remembered - the note from him, the one she'd given to Ginny, just the previous week, after finding it tucked between the pages of her book and falling apart. A _week_.

How was it possible she'd been the person she was then, a mere week in the past?

"I did, yes," she confirmed, weakly.

"You never said…" He sniffed, flipping over the page, covered in his own handwriting. "Not that I blame you for ignoring it, but I thought-"

"A week ago," she cut him off, realising the misunderstanding and sitting lightly on the end of the bed. "I only found it last Sunday."

His formerly distracted eyes darted sharply up to find hers, shocked.

"What?!"

"I got out my old copy of Hogwarts, A History, started flipping through it, and there it was."

He paused, unblinking, eyes wide, and she lightly gripped the edge of her bed, recalling how she'd felt that day. But it was over now, she reminded herself.

"Blimey," he breathed. "Didn't think it'd take more than a few days for you to find it. When you didn't mention it, I thought it must have fallen out, or… if I was feeling particularly sorry for myself, I reckoned you'd never want to talk about it."

"I can't believe you wrote all those things to me back then and I didn't know…"

"Would it have made a difference?" He swallowed nervously and quickly added- "You don't have to answer that."

As hurt as she had been after he'd returned to them during the war, the honest truth was that of course she thought it would have. The loss held less weight now that he was back with her again, but when she'd found the letter, still believing him to be dead, she'd been so consumed with counting the extra days they might have had that she'd made herself physically ill.

It literally felt like a lifetime separated the night she'd told Ginny about the letter from _this_ moment, Ron's _real eyes_ staring up at her.

"Probably," she admitted, voice lightly cracking, "but we're going to have so much more time than that now, aren't we?"

"Yeah," he sighed, dropping the letter back inside his trunk and sitting up on his knees right in front of her. "M'sorry."

"For what?" she whispered.

"Just let it be for everything that deserves it, yeah?"

She shook her head, distracted as he leaned closer, against her shins.

"I really don't know if I'll ever stop saying it but… I can't believe you're here." Her wavering voice cracked, and she sniffed back tears.

"Neither can I."

They stared at each other for several stretched moments, as if memorising everything all over again. The corner of his mouth tilted up, so very reminiscent of those final months of sixth year at Hogwarts when he'd already split with Lavender and was just short of following Hermione _everywhere_ around the castle to make up for lost time.

She leaned in to gently kiss him, and he held her waist in both hands as he kissed her back.

"Wait," she gasped against his mouth.

A memory flashed by - the words Ron had said to Harry upon his return, to prove his identity.

 _I left you on the Horcrux hunt, and when I came back, Slytherin's locket showed me you and Hermione snogging._

"Did you honestly think I… fancied Harry?"

His eyebrows shot up, alarmed.

"Why-"

"What you said to him at the pub, about the locket."

"Shit." He let go of her and sat back, scratching his jaw in that shy, embarrassed way she'd seen him do so many times before. "You didn't know about that, did you…"

"Why didn't you tell me before?" she asked, trying not to sound too hurt. She knew how complicated things had been between them, and it wasn't as if she'd been brilliant at communicating her own feelings, back then. If she hadn't been ready to face responsibility for that then, she knew she should be now.

"I really would have, eventually. But I thought it might be best, y'know, if we could just be friends again first. Then… yeah, I was selfish at Shell Cottage, 'cause you weren't so hacked off with me anymore. And when we weren't planning that Gringotts shite, you'd sit bloody close to me again, and I reckoned maybe I wasn't mad to think we could work it out. Didn't fancy fucking up by saying the wrong thing."

"But I was worried for _years_ that you didn't feel the same way I felt - that I'd just imagined you could fancy me back. If I'd known what that bloody locket showed you, I would have realised sooner how wrong I'd been…"

She knew it wasn't completely fair. They'd both made mistakes and done their share of misunderstanding. And how could he have told her then, when half the time she was treating him like he didn't exist?

"That was always the problem with us, yeah?" he said, half smiling at her. "No one wanted to go first."

"I tried, didn't I?" she countered weakly. "With Slughorn's party…"

He briefly wrinkled his nose at the memory, then ran a hand through his hair.

"And then you kissed me," he added, and she was transported yet again back to shy memories of being seventeen as he moved closer.

"There's that as well," she said quietly, cracking a small smile.

"Much braver than me…" he muttered, shifting forward on his knees so he was touching her again, gaze darting down to her lips.

"You tried to die for me, Ron…" she reminded him, automatically, recalling his raw voice desperately shouting to trade places with her at Malfoy Manor. His hands came to rest on the bed on either side of her, and his eyes roamed up her face as he vaguely shrugged.

It was so hard to keep it in her mind - that they were safe and he was _alive_ and he _loved_ her. She might never get used to it, it might never be natural and easy. But maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

He moved forward, between her legs, and gripped her lower back with a strong forearm, and she held his face in both hands as their lips met again. His chest pressed lightly to hers, and that familiar need to get closer intensified. She squeezed his hips between her thighs as his tongue swiped slowly against hers, and her chest arched into him, one hand weaving up into his hair. She felt a low groan in the back of his throat as she tilted her head the tiniest bit further right, her open mouth meshing with his, his hand moving up inside the back of her shirt.

She heard her own desperate whimper as her legs widened to allow him closer, his bare chest pressing tight against her breasts, too restricted by her own clothing, but lost… lost in kissing him. Her eyelids fluttered, her nails raked across his scalp; she wondered how she had possibly survived seven years, six months, and four days without him.

* * *

 **Monday, 21 November, 2005**

It began the moment they arrived in the Ministry Atrium. Flashing lights and frenzied voices. She'd nearly forgotten what Harry had warned, but the case had gone public, and now Ron's name was the leading headline.

"Fucking hell," she heard Ron mutter under his breath as they tried to hurry through the crowd.

"I'm sorry," she fretted, clutching his arm. "We shouldn't have come this way…"

A woman in bright green robes pushed through with a blinding camera, directly in their path of escape, and Hermione glared fiercely at her.

"Move _back_!" she demanded angrily, passing by the witch and shoving a shoulder between two tall wizards in waistcoats with floating parchment and quills dancing in their wake.

"She's not joking," Ron mumbled with a badly concealed grin, and they both clearly knew he was thinking of Rita Skeeter.

Unfortunately, Hermione's growing rage at the insistent Prophet reporters caused Ron's comment to roll off without the humour she was sure he had intended. And, as forceful as she was, it took several more minutes of aggravating maneuvering for them both to make it through.

"Tactless brutes," she spat, tightening her grip on Ron's arm as they slid into a lift, doors thankfully shutting quickly behind them.

"Blimey," he sighed, leaning against the back wall.

"They won't give up. They'll be chasing you down til they get a bloody story."

"Isn't there a private floo for Aurors? Maybe Harry could smuggle us home tonight."

"Oh, good thinking. We'll ask him when we go up to prepare for the trial."

"You don't reckon they know where we live?"

"Merlin, I hope not…"

The lift jolted to a stop, and Hermione rushed out with Ron close behind her, anxious to reach her office where they could hide.

* * *

The floo ride home was rough, one of Ron's elbows knocked against jagged stone, and his feet had barely touched the floor inside Hermione's flat when she started up again, as if they hadn't missed a beat since vanishing through the fireplace in the Auror department.

"I can't _believe_ they actually tried to get into Harry's office," she fumed, sharply tossing her bag to the sofa, "as if you don't have enough on your mind for tomorrow. And what do they think? Someone's going to spill important details about a sensitive case before going to trial?"

This reminded him that he probably _should_ be focused on the trial, but, oddly, he was having trouble feeling anxious yet, particularly when he was spending nearly every minute of every day with Hermione. The left corner of his mouth considered a smile.

"And I'm sure they've got our picture from this morning," she carried on, as she attempted to sharply brush soot from her robes. "They'll do anything- _anything-_ " She interrupted herself with a supremely frustrated sound, glaring at her filthy robes before unhooking the clasp and letting them drop to the floor.

Ron's left eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly.

"It'll be even _worse_ tomorrow. We'll have to use Harry's floo early and go down the back lifts." She examined a soot smudge down the front of her blouse before beginning to unbutton it, starting from the top, quickly revealing her flesh coloured bra.

Ron took a small step closer, intrigued…

"Oh, I should have been more careful today!" she groaned. "They've done this before, you know, the gits. Showed up at St. Mungo's while I was there, after-" She sniffed and dropped her blouse to the floor to join her robes.

He _was_ listening, really he was, but…

She unzipped her skirt, and it fell from her hips to pool at her feet.

His tongue darted out across his bottom lip, fully staring at her as she finally looked up to meet his eyes.

"What?" she asked breathlessly.

"You need a bath," he grinned.

And then he moved quickly, swooping an arm around her before she could guess what he was doing. She shrieked as he picked her up, laughing as he carried her down the short hall to the loo. Flailing slightly, she accidentally elbowed him in the ribs, seconds before he put her down on the bathroom tile. He winced and was making a show of acting hurt when he spotted his own reflection in the mirror.

"You need a bath, too," she grinned at his thoroughly sooty face. His hair was dusted black and ashy grey, and a dark streak ran down his right cheek past his jaw.

"Already tested the tub," he said with a smirk. "We can both fit."

"So get your filthy clothes off and get in with me."

* * *

"I'm not worried," he said in a scratchy, sleepy voice, several hours later.

They were lying in bed, in the dark, Crookshanks curled up and asleep on the bottom right corner of the mattress. Hermione was cuddled against Ron's right side, her bare right knee overlapping his thigh, face tucked softly against the side of his neck.

"Maybe I should be," he continued, lightly yawning. "Maybe I will be, tomorrow. But m'fine now." His fingers spread across her back absentmindedly.

"I'm so afraid for you," she admitted, her warm breath bathing his skin and her lips brushing his neck as she spoke, "facing them again after what they did to you. And _I'll_ see them all, too, right there in the same room with you."

"But they can't do anything else to us now, can they. And after the raid, the day I came back, there's loads of evidence of what they already did. Harry says it'll be fast, yeah? Y'know you probably don't even have to stay for the whole thing-"

She propped halfway up on her elbow and glared.

"You think I'd leave you to do this alone?"

"I won't be alone."

"You know what I meant." She shoved her hair off her shoulder and lowered her cheek to his chest, mumbling when she spoke again "Are you trying to keep me from hearing the details?"

"What? No." But he paused, shifting on his back, considering. "Dunno, I wasn't thinking of it like that."

"You haven't told me everything…"

"No."

Silence engulfed them for a moment, and he was oddly more concerned with having to disclose the details of his treatment aloud to a room that included Hermione than he was to come face to face with his captors again. He could do it right then instead, he considered, get it over with, have the chance to be alone with her when she found out. And it wasn't as if he thought she couldn't guess.

"Look," he started in a raspy voice, "they… they'd beat me, cut me with a blade… when I wouldn't talk or when they got impatient."

Her fist clenched in the sheet draped across his waist, and he sensed she was holding her breath as his fingers lightly tangled in her hair.

"Sometimes… I almost _wanted_ them to do it. It bought me some time if they'd go a little too far. I'd have to recover before they could question me again. Once, I thought they'd finally killed me. But they couldn't afford to lose me, so they'd always heal me again."

She was lightly trembling by then, though he suspected she didn't want him to know. But he swallowed and pressed on.

"At the end, after I'd lied to send them off, I thought I might starve to death. They left me with food and water while they went hunting for the gold. But I was running out fast, and they hadn't come back. Anything could've happened. They might've been caught, killed… just abandoned me for any bloody reason. But then, I worked out the wandless stunning spell, thinking of you…"

He closed his eyes and spread his hand across her back again, and he felt her moving, her arm draping all the way across his chest and her face so close to his that he could feel her breath on his lips.

"They'll have to take my wand, tomorrow," she whispered, "or I'll kill them all."

He opened his eyes, stared up at her beautiful face, and smiled.

"This time tomorrow, they'll be in Azkaban for life, and we'll be out getting pissed."

Her sorrowful expression shifted to mild amusement, and she leaned far enough back for him to properly see her eyes.

"That's your plan for a Tuesday night?" she teased.

"Shouldn't be out too late, you've got work Wednesday morning?" he grinned.

"Shut up. You haven't been drunk before, have you?"

His eyebrows shot up.

"No, but _you_ have."

"Not for any good reason…" Her gaze briefly broke away from his, and he thought he could sadly guess what she meant. "But _this_ will be a good one."

She turned back to stare down at him for a long, slow moment, gently brushed a hand across his cheek, and he lifted his head off his pillow an inch to kiss her, closing his eyes.

* * *

 **Tuesday, 22 November, 2005**

"Are you sure you're alright?" she asked for what felt like the hundredth time. He clobbered down a snappy reply, knowing it wasn't her fault. She was scared, too.

He'd finally sensed it, nervous anxiety over what they had to do, as he'd been brushing his teeth that morning. He reckoned he'd done a decent job covering for it til she'd taken ahold of his shaking hand on the lift down from Harry's office.

Now, they were standing just outside the closed doors to the room where he would see them all again, the ones who had stolen seven and a half years of their lives together.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely, clearing his throat. "Just gotta get this rubbish over with."

Standing close on his right, she was shaking a bit too, he noticed, as he brushed his thumb across her knuckles.

"If you need anything, if it's too much or you need to take a break-" Harry started, stepping closer to Ron's left and straightening his glasses.

"Thanks, mate."

The heavy, iron doors in front of them opened before they could exchange another word. Hermione's hand gripped Ron's almost painfully.

"Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter," said the short, elderly man on the other side.

They nodded, walked forward, and the doors boomed shut behind them.

* * *

Ron slumped against the worn wooden table in front of him, pleased by the distraction of the noise and the crowds at the pub. Harry's prediction had been correct, and the trial had been short. Ron had managed to numbly retell the full story of his capture and imprisonment, which had been solidified by physical evidence gathered at the scene by the Aurors who had responded when he'd arrived at the Ministry the previous week. Now, he was surrounded by friends - Neville, Seamus and Dean - Hermione leaning against his side, and Harry sitting with Ginny across the table, all finishing tall glasses of a dark, foamy ale that tasted like bitter chocolate.

"Now that you've told the Ministry where it is, they ought to give you the bloody gold," Harry said with a raised brow.

"Blimey, wouldn't know what to do with endless Galleons…"

"Oh, I'm sure you'd think of something," Ginny teased.

"Not saying I'd mind," Ron grinned back, rubbing his neck.

"Here," Hermione said quickly, scraping her chair across the floor to move behind him. He glanced over his shoulder curiously as she placed her hands on his back. "Turn around so I can do it properly." Her fingers pressed into his sore muscles, and he caught on, facing the table again, slouching forward on his elbows.

"Blimey, it's hard to believe," Neville said quietly. "We all thought you were dead, and here you just… weren't."

"He needs another round," Seamus suggested, getting up from the table to stagger back toward the bar where Dean was already requesting more drinks.

The five who remained fell silent for a long moment, until Ron felt Hermione's hair tickle his neck as she moved closer.

"We were literally apart for longer than we knew each other," she pointed out softly, evidently directing her words to both Ron and Harry, who nodded in solemn agreement with her realisation.

She was right, strangely, and Ron took in a deep, steadying breath, continuously planting in his mind that he'd seen the very last of his captors that day. Hermione's hands moved over his shoulders, working knots out of his tense body, and his eyes nearly slipped shut.

"Jesus…" he sighed. "You're so bloody good at that."

"You have no idea how many times I thought about asking if you wanted me to do it after a match or Quidditch practice," she confessed in a fondly reminiscent tone.

"Why?"

"Don't be daft, Ron," Ginny smirked, rolling her eyes in mock disgust.

"Excuse to touch you," Hermione admitted, leaning in close to his ear.

He smiled sleepily, eyes heavy-lidded as Seamus returned with Dean, balancing seven glasses in their arms and passing them round.

"Cheers," Dean said as he sat next to Ron, and Ron straightened up a bit to reach for his glass, tossing back a large gulp. He was growing accustomed to the taste, some Muggle ale the others had apparently been drinking for months, since they'd started frequenting the pub where he'd first seen Harry and Hermione. Tonight, they'd gone to a new place, hoping to avoid any signs of the press. So far, they'd been lucky.

He took another long sip of his drink before reluctantly shifting around to stop Hermione.

"Gotta go to the loo," he explained as he shrugged her hands away from his back and awkwardly slid off his chair to stand. But he became quite instantly aware of his apparent state of drunkenness, which he had not at all realised whilst sitting down.

His palms flattened to the tabletop as he caught his balance, and Hermione giggled behind him as she stood and wrapped an arm around his waist.

"I'll help you," she suggested, tugging him closer, causing him to briefly forget why he'd gotten up in the first place.

He turned and draped an arm around her shoulders, and she led them away from the fading, friendly sounds of laughter amongst their friends.

"You're adorable when you're drunk," she said shyly, biting her lip as they turned down a shadowy hallway. He leaned too heavily against her for a second and caught himself with a palm to the wall, laughing.

"I'm drunk, am I?"

"Oh, surely," she grinned back up at him. He fully paused in the midst of their journey, staring down at her face, cast in semi-darkness.

He could look at her all night. Every night.

"You're fuckin'beautiful," he slurred, watching her face flush.

"Stop that."

"Wanna kiss you… all night, wanted to-"

She cut him off by tugging his shirt collar sharply down so their lips met. They turned almost immediately so her back was against the wall, his body pressing into her.

He felt someone pass down the hallway behind him, and he couldn't bring himself to give a shit, snogging her breathlessly, weaving a hand into her hair as she arched her body tightly into him, standing up on her toes, gripping his neck with both hands before wrapping her arms around him.

He could hear his own vibrating moans, her tongue touching his, the taste of alcohol strong between them. Her warm, parted lips moved over his, gasping short breaths. His blurring eyes opened briefly, sensing a tenseness to her face, her eyes tightly squeezed shut. Her nails dug into his shoulders, and he briefly shut his eyes again. But then he steadied himself, forearms strong on the wall above her shoulders, and he pulled back from her mouth enough to look at her properly. Her own eyes cracked open, and he saw the deep creases across her worried forehead.

Rather than speak - he didn't know what to say - he pressed his forehead to hers and breathed.

He covered her in shadow, her face dark in the dimly lit corridor. But he knew her in complete blackness; he could trace the lines of her face with his eyes closed.

She finally broke away to hug him, her cheek on his chest.

"Oh, God… Ron," she muttered to his collarbone. "It's really over. You'll never have to see them again, and you're safe."

"Yeah," he muttered back, into her hair, "and I've got you."

She tightened her grip around him and shivered with relief, lightly and almost silently crying into his shirt.

* * *

He'd comically managed to strip down to his pants and fall into bed, sideways, long legs hanging halfway off the edge. He'd dozed off almost instantly, and by the time Hermione had climbed into bed with him, he was softly snoring. His position, while amusing, was going to make it impossible for her to lie down the right way. She tried and failed to tug her blanket out from under him.

"Ron," she attempted, nudging his shoulder with her foot.

He made a muffled sound of vague acknowledgement, but his eyes didn't open.

Lightly rolling her eyes, Hermione shifted so her face was an inch from his. Rather than speak again, she dragged her lips across his jaw, freshly shaven that morning for the trial but already beginning to prickle with stubble again.

"Mm," he sighed, but his breathing quickly returned to deep slumber.

She made her way down the side of his neck, sucking gently.

He breathed in sharply through his nose and finally stirred awake.

"Oi," he said in the scratchiest, weakest version of a protest. She lifted her head to find his eyes slipping shut again. "Carry on," he amended raspily, a grin cracking across his face.

" _Move_ ," she instructed instead. "You're taking up the whole bed, unbelievably…"

She hadn't actually expected him to take immediate action, so she was quite startled when he suddenly jostled around on the bed to face the right way, then flopped over to drape an arm and a leg over her body, trapping her down.

"Get off!" she laughed. "I can't breathe."

He did shift his arm down from her chest, but he nuzzled his face into her hair at the same time.

"Y'smell _good_ ," he mumbled.

"Hm," she smiled. "Well, one of us brushed our teeth and washed our face before bed, didn't we."

"Can't move. Do it in th'morning."

"You get a pass because you've never been drunk before. Next time, I'm dumping you out of bed."

"Why aren't _you_ drunk?"

"I was, a bit. But I didn't drink half what you did."

"You're half my size," he pointed out, holding onto her waist.

"Yes. And you're still crushing me," she grinned as his teeth attached to her ear through her thick curls.

He mumbled something she couldn't make out and dragged his leg off of her, but she merely rolled to her side and tugged his arm further over her waist. He immediately snuggled back up to her again, aligning to the back of her body, knees tucking behind hers. The warmth of his body was blissful on a chilly November night, and she hardly even needed a blanket. She didn't want to move to get it, anyway.

For several moments, she heard his breathing slow down, aware of the moment when he'd fully drifted off to sleep again. But then a fleeting panic gripped her quietly, for no discernible reason… the weight of the day, perhaps, slowly sobering up to the sound of a light rainfall outside…

There had been so much darkness in their short years. So much fear. Yet none had compared to the fear of living a life she didn't want, of being perpetually alone. _Of being left behind._

But he wouldn't leave her again.

She calmed herself down once more by focusing on the the rise and fall of his chest, so steady and deep, against her back.

* * *

 **Friday, 25 November, 2005**

The first time he woke up screaming, she was sobbing by the time he really saw her. Sweat dotted his temples, and he couldn't breathe.

"You're safe!" she promised with a heartbreaking cry, climbing halfway into his lap, in the dark. "It was just a n-nightmare, Ron! You're home!"

He couldn't respond, staring back at her frightened eyes and watching silent tears track down her cheeks.

The fear had been bloody real. Too real. He'd thought his heart had stopped, and a phantom pain had ripped through his head. Otherwise, he could not remember the dream at all. It was faded now and fleeting, moving further from his grasp as he tried to recall it. But he didn't need to know to have _felt_ it.

He wanted to tell Hermione not to worry. He wanted to look away from the panicked expression that deeply cut her features now. But he couldn't catch a breath to speak, so he leaned against her, resting his head on her shoulder and closing his eyes as she held him.

* * *

 **Sunday, 27 November, 2005**

The second time was maddening

\- he'd not expected a recurrence. He paced the room for hours afterward, even after she'd lightly drifted off to anxious sleep. Why couldn't he know he was safe, in his dreams?

Of course a rational part of him knew it wasn't so simple. He'd been blissfully numb for twelve days. Had he thought he could live there forever, drowning in the shockingly real fantasies that had saved his life?

He glanced at Hermione's small form under a twisted blanket. Bloody hell, she was actually there with him. Shouldn't that be enough?

It was more than enough. But he'd forgotten how to _breathe_ , in peace. Before, with Harry, there had been plenty of stretches when they hadn't known if they'd survive, but that had been entirely different to what he'd suffered later. Now, he knew that. They'd had each other, back then. He'd had nights of watching Hermione's fingertips lightly brush over the pages of faded books, her leg pressed against his for a while when he wasn't sure if she'd realised how close they were.

When he'd been taken from them, he'd had nothing. Blackness. Every second counted alarmingly toward the growing gap since the last time he'd been with her. What hope could he find except what he'd made himself? And how could he have found it there? Oh yes, he'd expected to die, he admitted. Over and over he'd planned it. He'd seen visions of it inside his own head.

But he _had_ found hope, he reminded himself. Of course, because he was free. Because he'd wanted her so desperately that it had been enough to bring him back, to syphon magic from his soul and make it do exactly what he'd needed it to do.

He held out his hand and whispered in the dark.

"Accio."

Hermione's scarf floated off the back of her desk chair and into his open hand. His new wand lay quite still, a metre away, on the bedside table.

* * *

 **Wednesday, 30 November, 2005**

The third time was hell. His screams echoed off the silenced and warded walls of their bedroom until he finally caught his breath.

He swore softly to himself afterward, head in his hands as she shivered next to him. Nightmares were too unpredictable, reaching up to grab him in the dark without warning. But he'd make them stop, Dreamless Sleep might help.

He was scaring her now. And he _needed_ to make it stop.

* * *

 **Friday, 2 December, 2005**

Sheets tangled around his lanky legs, and he roughly tugged them away. She sniffed beside him, and her bedside clock read 4:05am.

Her eyes were bloodshot, dark shadowy circles evident even in dim light. Night after night, and he wasn't getting better. He'd begun imagining how he could bring it up, how he might ask her if he should-

He couldn't say the word. It wasn't _leaving_ if he came back. It wasn't leaving if she let him go.


	17. 7 Years, 6 Months, 22 Days

**_A/N:_** _Hey, friends! Just one more chapter left to go after this one. So close to the end, kinda can't believe it! Thanks so much to everyone who has stuck with this and left lovely reviews over the past year and a half!_

 _Okay, here we go. x_

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:**

 **7 Years, 6 Months, 22 Days**

 **Sunday, 4 December, 2005**

He suspected it probably wasn't the right choice, but he'd packed a small rucksack, while she was in the shower, then he'd moved to the sofa to wait. At least he'd wanted this to look easy, no trouble, a short holiday. If she saw hesitation, she might not be rational.

Of course, he knew… she wouldn't be anyway. He had to choose his words bloody carefully.

She emerged from the hall wearing one of his shirts and toweling her hair dry. His lips had barely parted to speak when she saw his rucksack on the floor by his feet. Her towel dropped, forgotten, to the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"I thought-"

"No, clearly you _haven't_ ," she shot back, eyes round and cheeks immediately flushing. He hadn't expected her to beat him to it, to realise what he was doing and protest before he'd had a chance to explain.

"You know I'd never really leave. Don't you?" he said a little too desperately. "But these fucking nightmares-"

"What about them?" she asked shrilly, crossing her arms tightly over her chest and glaring down at him.

"It's too upsetting. I'll just go for a little while, and… I'll come right back."

"You don't call that leaving?!"

He stared up at her for a moment, clearing his throat.

"Not if you let me," he tried simply, knowing it was a rather poor explanation, but it was all he had. "I'm _asking_ you. It'll be easier-"

"Don't ever say things like that!"

She paced sharply away toward the kitchen, too far away.

"Hermione…" He got up to follow, suddenly consumed with guilt but also strongly recalling why this made sense. She had barely slept all week. "I'm just saying I'll go to the Burrow for a while til it stops."

"You're _asking_ me," she repeated bitterly, back toward him. "You've packed your bag already but you're _asking_."

He couldn't reply, though he'd have liked to row back to avoid the piercing silence.

"Does it help you at all," she finally said, "that I'm here with you?"

"Of course it bloody helps, but-"

She spun around to face him, eyes watery but no tears falling just yet.

"You can't go."

He was practically melting into the floor as he looked at her, suspecting she was trying not to blink. Why the hell would he spend one single night away from her after all they had been through? He had to force himself to focus on the initial thought that had led him there, however weak it felt now.

She must have sensed his indecision, because she tutted loudly, and her next words were a logical appeal.

"I know it's not the same thing - you were trapped for _years_ \- but would you have left me alone, after the Manor?"

"No," he answered roughly, shoving a hand anxiously through his hair. "But you said it. That's _not_ the same thing. You were bloody tortured while I-"

"And you _weren't_?! God, Ron, what they did to you! S-Seven years of it! And _I_ can hardly say it! Of course you have nightmares!" Her tears finally spilled over freely, and she barely seemed to notice. "And you can't tell me this is for me, that you'd be leaving _for me_ , and then not listen to what I actually want! If it's hurtful for you to be here, then- then of course I'll let you go. But…"

"You're not sleeping. I'm scaring you."

"Do I not get to decide if that's true? It's not!"

He briefly closed his eyes, on the cusp of losing all grasp on his intentions. Perhaps this had been a very, very stupid idea.

"Do you _want_ to go?" Her drastic change in questioning prompted him to open his eyes again.

"Don't ask me that." It wasn't only because he didn't want to say it aloud, but because she could _not_ think that of him. Escaping to the Burrow so she could get some sleep suddenly appeared as if he was giving her a reason to doubt how he felt.

"Pl-Please," she trembled, and he was done. "I have to know. I would never force you to stay…"

"Fucking hell, no, of course I don't want to."

"Unpack."

"Hermione." He wished he could stop his lips from twitching toward a smile.

"You _can't_ go now." And, with an impressive note of finality, she turned her tear-streaked face away and stomped off toward their bedroom, out of sight.

Half a minute of ringing silence surrounded him before he went for his rucksack and made his way cautiously down the hall.

"D'you have any idea how many times I've made you cry?" he asked softly, as he appeared in the open doorway, looking in where Hermione was perched on the edge of the bed, sniffing.

She dismissed his question with a short sigh, shaking her head.

"Is it really s-so hard for you to believe I love you?"

"What's that got to do with anything?" He walked into the room and dropped his bag by the wardrobe, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

She shook her head and wiped her face on her forearm, staring across the room rather than looking up at him.

"Reckon that was bloody stupid of me. M'sorry," he said roughly, wondering if she'd want him to come closer.

"It wasn't, really."

He waited for her to say more, but when she didn't, he chanced it and sat beside her, leaving a few inches between their legs. She almost immediately tilted her head down on top of his shoulder.

"It will _never_ be easier to be away from you," she said softly. "Don't you think I know that?"

He took a deep, sighing breath. She was right, but how could he fix it? Leaving wouldn't have changed the reality that he evidently couldn't cope in waking hours with what had happened.

"We've always done this together, til they took you, haven't we?" she asked softly. "The really difficult things. With Harry. Your family. And you had nightmares at Grimmauld Place, remember?"

"Yeah."

Those were sharp memories, but also some of the best he'd had up til then. Four nights in a row, Hermione had come up to his room after Harry had fallen asleep, and they'd sat on his bed together and talked. Just talked, in the dark. The first night, she'd come to find him roughly starting awake and panicking. They'd both known his fear for his family, but she hadn't known how much he'd feared for her, too.

They hadn't spoken of it again, but she'd wordlessly returned, the next three nights, just to keep him company. Maybe she'd been just as afraid of dreaming, too.

Then, the Ministry break-in and the locket had changed everything. He didn't need to recall that bit now… or ever again.

"I didn't know how to help," she continued. "I've always been scared I couldn't… I'm not good at saying the right thing. But I'll be here, if you want me."

"Why's that scare you? Because I'm so great at saying the right thing to _you_?" he teased, and she let out a tiny, breathy laugh. "Y'know, I thought of those nights you came up to my room at Grimmauld Place all the time when we were living in the damn tent."

"Did you?" Her head shifted on top of his shoulder, but she didn't look up, so he brushed his fingertips up her back.

"I should've kissed you."

"Mm." He could hear her smile.

"Thought about it a thousand times every day."

Her warm weight relaxed against him, and he turned his head so her frizzy hair feathered the tip of his nose.

"I know I told you already, but it helps."

"Hm?" She lifted her head to look at him, faces so close.

"Being with you."

She licked her lips absentmindedly and touched the collar of his shirt with her fingertips.

"But I dunno how to change what I'm thinking in my bloody sleep…"

"You can't expect to feel better all at once."

He shrugged lightly, and her eyes narrowed the tiniest bit.

"And leaving doesn't make any sense."

"It never does," he conceded, half-smiling at her. She pressed her lips together and shivered.

"It's freezing in here."

"Your hair's still wet," he pointed out.

She ignored this comment and climbed past him into bed to burrow under the covers. He stood, toed off his shoes, took off his jeans, and lifted the bottom end of a blanket to crawl underneath, quickly finding Hermione's bare legs. He ran a large palm up the outside of her thigh as he made his way up, bumping against her and making her laugh. He smiled and thought if only he could seal away the sound of her laughter for his dreams, he'd be fine.

"I can't believe you packed while I was taking a shower," she sighed as he emerged from the top of the blanket, by her shoulder.

"It was only a few shirts and pants!"

"Don't be a prat next time. Just talk to me."

"Yeah. I just knew you'd talk me out of it."

She looked like she wanted to bite something back but thought better of it. His curiosity warred with his desire to keep things settled for now, and he resisted asking what she'd been about to say.

He rested his head lightly on the pillow next to hers, quietly surveying her features for the millionth time. He would never get over it, he knew, how perfect she was for him.

"You should see a healer," she finally suggested, and he knew she was probably right.

"They helped you, did they?" he heard himself asking, wondering if he was looking for validation or an escape.

She considered her answer for a moment, staring up at the ceiling as she spoke.

"There was nothing anyone could have done to make losing you not… the worst thing that had ever happened to me. But, Ron… I- I wanted to die. Do you understand? And they… they helped me get past that, at least. The healers I saw and the potions I took gave me some hope that I could live, in some way."

His eyes burned with tears and anger at what she'd _had_ to live with, and he found it hard to answer right away, throat constricted. When at last he cleared it, she turned over to face him directly, legs overlapping under their blanket.

"It was always there," she added before he could speak, "what had happened and the fact that you were gone. It always would have been. But I could show up at work and eat, sometimes, and I wasn't happy, but I was alive. Does that make sense?"

"Think so," he said stiffly, sighing. "I've got so many bloody things I would've changed if I could, but that's the one. That's what I'd fix if I only got to pick one. How they made you feel... fucking hell… seven years of it. At least I was unconscious for six."

"That's not what _I_ would choose," she said softly. "I'd st-stop them hurting you."

He reached up to lay a hand on the side of her face, captivated by her softly watering eyes and parted lips. She was so perfectly _real_ and lovely and unrestrained, never hiding herself from him anymore. He felt too connected to her to be individual, like a part of him had been entwined with her soul and always lived there, comfortable and correct. Her pain was so much heavier to him than his own.

Maybe that was a way to get out, he considered, to realise he craved her happiness so much more than his own. But somehow - for some incredible, astonishing reason - she felt the same way about him. _He_ made her happy, like nothing else could. Then he had to get better. For her, yes. But for himself as well. So they could move on, together, so they could truly start the life he wanted with her more than anything else.

"Take me tomorrow?" he asked hoarsely, and it seemed to take her a moment to realise what he'd meant.

"Of course," she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips… which he promptly covered with his own.

* * *

 **Tuesday, 13 December, 2005**

It was getting a little bit easier. He believed her now when she'd say it wasn't hurting her. Of course his pain was hard to watch - she wanted to take it away in an instant, she wanted him to be free - but she also _wanted_ to be there, every moment he wanted _her_.

The healers had a fascinating method of helping someone cope with trauma, and though she didn't understand every spell and every direction they gave, she'd become familiar with techniques and potions in her time with them, too. Ron was completely open about everything they had suggested, with her and with Harry. There had never been secrets between them really, save perhaps her course schedule in third year and the fact that she'd been irreversibly in love with Ron by the time she was sixteen…

Occasionally, her own nightmares had returned. He'd once flipped to his opposite side in his sleep, and a cold draft had wafted across her back where their blankets had been pulled away, and she'd panicked that his return had been the real dream - the nightmare, true reality. Another night, there had been no real reason for it, a deeply woven fear rising up in unconsciousness, without logic. She'd checked his pulse before he'd sleepily held her and muttered words she'd only half heard until she'd drifted back to sleep again.

But they were alright - they would be. They had each other.

It was growing ever colder, an icy chill in the air after work as they walked round the corner to the pub to meet Harry. Ron clutched Hermione's arm in his as she shivered, thinking of Irish coffee and butterbeer.

The pub was crowded for a Tuesday, owing to the turn in the weather, and they made their way to a small table at the back, dimly lit and warm from a nearby fireplace. Ron took off his coat and stretched as Hermione removed her gloves, and he automatically took her hands in his to keep them warm as she sighed.

"Harry!" Ron called out, as a mop of shaggy black hair appeared across the bar. He joined them quickly, sliding onto the bench to face them.

"Bloody freezing out there," Harry said as he huddled for a second, warming up. "Oh, thanks for the tip about Marcus, Ron. That saved us a lot of time on the raid today. You sure you don't want to join the Aurors?"

But they knew he was teasing, of course. The topic had come up a few times, and no one blamed Ron for thinking that it wasn't really right for him now, after everything they'd been through. He laced the fingers of his left hand loosely with Hermione's right and leaned back casually.

"You know I don't," he reminded Harry with a half-smile.

"You'd be brilliant, mate, but I know," Harry answered, smiling back.

"Who's Marcus?" Hermione asked, glancing between the two of them.

"A case we've been working on. He's been smuggling illegal artefacts, and Ron suggested checking Portkey logs with neighbouring countries. Turns out at least half a dozen were unauthorised in the last six weeks, and after the raid today, we're pretty sure we can pin them to Marcus."

She studied Ron's nonchalant profile and smiled. He _was_ bloody brilliant, she knew that. But she also knew why his suspicions for Portkeys would now be more keen than someone else's might've been.

"I'll get our drinks," Harry suggested. "What do you want, Hermione? Ron?"

"Something warm," Hermione said, with a nod of agreement from Ron.

"You got it." Harry stood, removed his cloak, and disappeared toward the bar.

Hermione leaned against Ron's shoulder, and his thumb brushed in an absentminded way over the side of hers.

"How many times did he try with you?" Ron asked in a lighthearted tone.

"Try what?"

"To make you an Auror." She tilted her head to look up at him and found him grinning fondly at her.

"Oh," she said, dismissively, "a few. But I think he always knew it wasn't what I wanted."

"Reckon you had the whole Ministry trying to recruit you."

She felt her face flush as she dropped her head to his shoulder again. She was tired in a way that made his presence all the more comforting, the lovely, familiar scent of his skin and hair encasing her, and his body heat warming her. She could disappear, drift to half-consciousness right there.

Harry must have returned with their drinks because Ron shifted and let go of her hand, and she opened her eyes, not having realised they'd slipped shut. And, for a while, she sipped her drink contentedly, vaguely listening to Ron and Harry's familiar banter across the table beside her.

* * *

"You didn't get to be best man, at my wedding," Harry lamented, an hour later, huddling with Ron in front of the pub as they waited for Hermione to come out from the loo.

"S'alright. You can do it for _me_."

Harry eyed him knowingly, and Ron shrugged.

"Reckon she'll want you as hers though, too," Ron considered, "so we'll have to fight it out."

They laughed, pressing closer together for warmth, as a loud group exited the pub beside them, making their way down the street.

"Still going well with the healers?" Harry asked.

"S'pose so. Haven't been screaming in my sleep as much lately." He'd meant it to sound more like a joke than it had done, once he'd said the words aloud. Harry looped his arm through Ron's and grew quiet and serious, green eyes glimmering with the pub's lantern glow behind his glasses.

"If you need _anything_ , you know… _ever-_ "

"I know." Ron smiled at his best friend, as sure about this as he'd ever been about anything. Harry didn't need to say the words - he never did - for them both to know it.

"I should've found you," Harry added, disgracefully.

"Don't. You can't do that."

"I can, and I will, and _you_ would. So shut up."

Ron dug his elbow into Harry's ribs and softly glared at him.

"You could _never_ have known," Ron said firmly. "Let's just agree that it's lucky as hell we've made it past all the mental shit we've done, from the first year we met, and none of us would take it back."

"I could've at least anonymously bought you some decent robes for the Yule Ball," Harry snickered, and Ron snorted.

"I'll let you have that one."

The door opened next to them again to reveal Hermione, hugging her arms across her chest from the cold, shoulders hunched. Ron reached for her, pulling her into his huddle with Harry.

"Anyone else hungry?" he asked.

"Pizza?" Harry suggested.

"Let's go before we all catch pneumonia," Hermione shivered.

* * *

Hours later, Ron was lying on his back in their bed, right arm casually wrapped around her bare shoulders as she rested her cheek on his chest. The world outside was dark and starless from cloud cover, regular noises from city traffic subdued with the winter night. She thought of a report she was working on for werewolf rights, then ran her toes unconsciously up and down Ron's shin. She could sense his breath, feel the calm beat of his heart.

"George asked me to come and work with him, at the shop," he said, quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Says it's what he would've suggested if I'd- well, if I'd been around. What do you think?"

"About you working at the shop?"

"Mm hm."

She shifted her cheek against him to look up and find his eyes.

"What?" he asked, sceptically eyeing her awed expression.

"It's just… you really care what I think."

"Course I do," he scoffed, clearly confused.

There was no real surprise, quite a natural thing for him to consult with her about. After all, this was the beginning of what she fully assumed would be the rest of their lives. But she'd lived so _alone_ , for so long, never planned a future beyond supper with anyone else in her life. She'd never wanted to, but maybe that wasn't the point. Maybe she'd never known exactly how it would feel, even as often as she'd imagined it with Ron, years ago.

"Sometimes I just realise…" she started, sighing. "Maybe I'd forgotten _exactly_ how amazing you are."

He laughed and shook his head, dismissive. He never knew, never understood completely who he was to her. Who he _was_ , fullstop. She'd keep on showing him, but maybe it would never truly sink in.

She nuzzled closer against him, and he lightly pressed his lips to the top of her head, muffling his voice when he spoke again.

"You haven't answered about the shop."

She laughed, closing her eyes.

"I think it's great. Only… I hate the thought of you not coming to work with me anymore."

"I could chuck that idea and just be your personal secretary."

She could feel him laughing with her, and she briefly thought of the sleepless nights she'd experienced before, alternating insomnia with deeply exhausting sleep that never made her feel any better.

For a long while after, they were quiet, and her mind drifted again between recent memories of his incredible return and the distant past, jumbled together and running out of sequence.

"You falling asleep?" she eventually whispered.

"No…" She could hear him grinning, giving away his lie. She lifted her head from his chest again to properly look at him, finding his eyes slowly cracking open. "Are you?" he asked, fingertips trailing lazily down her back.

"Maybe a bit," she admitted, smiling back. "Are you getting used to the bed?"

"Yeah. Feels pretty good now."

His hand moved to her hair, fingers running through it, spreading gooseflesh across her back. She couldn't quite stop her throat from constricting, on the verge of sleepy tears as she watched him.

"Sometimes I still wonder if I've gone mad," she whispered, hoarsely, "just imagined you inside my mind because I couldn't live without you."

He studied her carefully for a moment, then gently cleared his throat, losing all signs of distress, as if the concept was no longer frightening.

"If you have," he said, "then I've done it, too… and, honestly… I'm alright with that."


	18. 7 Years, 7 Months, 13 Days

_**A/N:** Omfg. This is it, guys. I finished a damn multi-chapter fic. I love you all. I hope this is a satisfying little final bit. Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and loving Ron with me all this time. There's another small note at the bottom, so I'll see you there! x_

* * *

 **Sunday, 25 December 2005**

 **7 Years, 7 Months, 13 Days**

It had been almost a week since he'd had a nightmare. It had been longer than that since she'd checked for his pulse. It wasn't over. Maybe it never would be, maybe the war and years of separation and the trauma they'd lived through was part of them now, deeply and irrevocably. But reparably.

The Burrow was full of laughter and warmth, twinkling Christmas lights and a crackling fire and the delicious smells of mince pies and shortbread and spiced tea filling the air. They were sitting on the rug by the hearth, a part of him always touching her - his knee against her leg or a hand on her back, fingertips running lightly over her jumper.

She had missed _all_ of this, for so many years.

It was remarkable, really, that his family had folded her in so seamlessly, so many years ago, long before they'd known - before _she'd_ known, herself - that one day she'd be with Ron the way she was now. They'd never needed to be so welcoming, but from that first summer she'd spent at the Burrow, she'd felt as if she'd belonged, right down to being included in chore lists with the rest of the family. When Ron had been taken, her invitations had never ceased, as if he hadn't been the only thing that had tethered her to them - they had loved her, too. Of course it was different now - he was home. But being there, surrounded by her second family, made her feel oddly melancholy over the years she'd stayed away.

Ron took a deep breath that she could feel against her back as he leaned closer, knees bent up on either side of her hips, pressing his cheek to her hair and loosely sliding his forearm across her stomach. She let her shoulders drop back against his chest, listening faintly to Teddy and Victoire playing with a box of newly acquired Wheezes products.

Mrs Weasley approached from the kitchen, her graying hair pinned up atop her head and a contented tiredness to her features as she sat in the armchair closest to the fire.

"Why don't you stay over tonight," she suggested, smiling down at Ron.

Ron laughed gently and lifted his head away from Hermione, and she knew what he was thinking. He wouldn't stay there without her.

"Hermione, too, of course," Mrs Weasley added, evidently reading his reaction with startling accuracy. But she was immediately interrupted by Dominique running up to ask for biscuits, and they disappeared to find Bill.

"Alright," Hermione said to Ron, turning around to look at him, "only I'm not staying in Ginny's room this time."

He laughed again and kissed her, her eyes slipping shut as she unconsciously held the front of his shirt in a loose fist, the world disappearing.

When they eventually parted, her face warmed from both the heat of the fire and a self-conscious flush, realising exactly how surrounded they were by his family and just how many people had almost certainly seen them. Ron didn't seem to care in the least, staring softly at her with firelight flickering in his eyes.

"Wanna get out of here?" he suggested in a low voice with half a smile, gaze lingering on her lips.

She answered by taking his hand and smiling back.

* * *

His room was alive again. Though he no longer lived there, the cold staleness that had settled in upon his disappearance had receded. She watched him light a lantern on his bedside table, the inky dark of nearly midnight flooding in from his window, curtains parted, and a comforting warmth spread through her as she sat on the edge of his bed. So many nights the three of them had spent there, talking - sometimes of serious things and sometimes just laughing - and so many _later_ nights she'd imagined herself there with him, alone, closing her eyes and picturing his orange walls and slightly scratchy wool blankets and the intoxicating scent of his skin.

"Y'know, I always wanted to shag you in this bed," he smirked, as he sat beside her.

She laughed, but it quickly faded, thinking back again, for the millionth time. "I couldn't sleep, the week we stayed here, after the war."

"I remember," he said softly, gazing at her.

"What _would_ you have done, when we were eighteen?"

"Stop you, apparently," he said with mock disapproval, and she shook her head.

"You were right. But I suppose I meant… Australia."

"Oh, _then_? Yeah. Dunno if we'd have made it to the bed, once we got there," he grinned.

"And when we got back?" she asked, bending her leg up onto his bed to slide closer.

His gaze roamed over her face, lingering on her mouth.

"Silencing charms," he whispered. She smiled as he reached for his wand, locking the door and silencing the room.

"Showing off with spellwork? Good start," she said approvingly, lightly running her hands up the front of his body.

"And my room's clean."

She laughed again, taking in his playful expression, seeing the years pass by like flipping the pages of a book. They would grow old together. They'd have a million days. The past would seem like a blink compared to the future.

" _And_ I brushed my teeth," he continued, leaning so close she could feel his minty breath on her lips. "Didn't shave though."

"Perfect," she whispered, sliding her hands up to his neck as he kissed her.

He touched her so gently, fingertips on her back through her jumper. His lips softly parted, hers sliding between his, tongues slowly meeting, and she wondered if he was still thinking of the past, showing her how he would have been with her, all those years ago.

She wasn't convinced they could have been so careful, moved so slowly. Yet… they _had_ done - so many times on Prefect rounds she had fantasised he'd lift her onto a desk and snog her, yet the simple brush of his hand against hers (accidentally?), had driven her mad for days.

She moved her hands back down the front of his body, mouths breaking away and rejoining, fingertips finding the bottom hem of his shirt and seeking the warmth of his skin underneath. His own hands moved up to her face, thumbs smoothing across her cheeks, and her fingers stilled on his stomach, consumed for a moment by his adoring touch. If they'd come home from Australia, and he'd kissed her, just like this, she'd never have been able to leave his room again…

He cautiously touched her collarbones before his hands skipped down over her arms, a gesture which felt almost hilariously tentative. They'd spent so many recent nights tearing each other's clothes off that his careful movements now seemed adorably nervous by comparison.

She separated her lips from his and held his gaze as he lightly held her waist.

"Would you mind taking this off?" she asked with forced formality and the hint of a teasing smile, gently tugging the hem of his shirt with one hand.

"You'd have been that polite?" he teased back, and her cheeks flushed comfortably.

"Fine," she laughed. "Take it off. _Please_."

He obliged her quickly, tugging his shirt forward, over his head, and dropping it to the floor. His hands moved back to her waist, sliding up her sides, back down. Too much fabric underneath them.

"You could've-" she started, catching his eyes again and searching. She knew what she'd have wanted, back then. She'd known what he'd wanted, too. "Whatever you want, Ron."

"Blimey, _that_ sounds like you," he breathed, and she knew he was thinking of their surprisingly recent, real first time at her flat, when she'd given him open permission to do anything he wanted with her. And what had he done after that? She vividly recalled it, the first time anyone had ever touched her the way he had.

His fingers slid underneath the sides of her jumper, pulling it up her body as he went. Something about the way he took off her shirts - and maybe it was merely the recall she'd held onto so tightly, the way he'd removed her nightdress in the loo before showering together at eighteen - but it made her feel safe, only with him, because she could feel how much he loved her even in the way his knuckles brushed her bare sides as she lifted her arms over her head.

Her jumper and vest hit the floor with his shirt, and though it was true they had done this many times before, being in his room really was changing everything. She was surrounded by memories, familiarity, and an essence of his life. Everything here was his, in some way. Even the glow of his lantern on his skin was somehow singular to this room. She watched him breathing, thinking he must be feeling something similar, to be back here again, with her.

"C'mere." He took her hand and pulled her down into bed with him, lying on their sides to face one another in the dim light.

The tips of his fingers slowly traced the lines of her face, down the curve of her shoulder.

"I love you," she said quietly, a reminder, such an easily spoken phrase now.

"I love you," he said raspily back, the corner of his mouth lifting, amazed.

"Love being here with you," she added, though she could feel her eyes burning a bit with the weight of it, hoping he wouldn't notice. She really was happy.

"I could look at you all night, y'know," he said, almost shyly.

"Please do more than look," she suggested, fighting a grin, and his reverential expression fell away as he laughed.

He lifted his head from his pillow and attached his mouth to her neck, skipping warm lips down her goosefleshed skin. She closed her eyes as he thoroughly kissed her neck and chest, finally reaching for the clasp of her bra, unhooking it and dragging it down her arms to be lost in the creases of his quilt, between them.

She rolled to her back as he moved over her, his skin sliding against hers and his mouth moving over her breasts, skimming hardened nipples and causing her body and voice to react in involuntary, desperate ways. He slowly made his way down the centre of her chest to her stomach, then sat back on his knees, beside her, to reach for the button of her jeans. She shifted her hips to help him remove them, kicking them free, together with her knickers.

Her fully naked body was in his bed for the first time. He was staring down at her, hands on her hipbones, fringe choppily falling low over his forehead.

"Last time we were here, you had on that nightdress I could practically see through, and I was a bloody idiot."

"Why?" Apparently her voice had all but left her, only an airy sound escaping to form the word.

"I thought we'd have so much time."

"We did. We _do_ ," she amended, trying not to blink as his gaze held hers. "We'll be alright now."

"We thought that before," he sniffed, hands unconsciously sliding up a bit, fingertips touching her ribs.

"We have to trust it again, don't we?" she shivered. "It'll be different this time. It has to be. We… we can't lose each other again."

"No," he answered simply, and an apologetic look of regret crossed his features. "M'sorry."

"I'm afraid, too," she confessed, and he gazed down at her with such protective affection that she nearly felt her heart stop. Wordlessly, he leaned forward, moving a hand up to her cheek and weaving his fingers loosely through her curls.

"We could be the luckiest three people alive - me, you and Harry."

"You and Harry… you both came back to life," she agreed, choosing to skip the memory that had briefly resurfaced, in which she'd nearly died herself, on a cold stone floor, listening to him desperately screaming her name from below.

"Never thought of it like that."

"Why would all of that happen to us, why would we survive it, if we weren't meant to finally be alright?"

"Yeah," he said simply, smiling before he kissed her quickly.

His large, beautiful hand moved slowly down her body again, and she closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. She'd imagined his hands on her, years after she'd thought she'd never see him again. But she'd never come close, in visions, to the truth, how incredible it was - and _would_ be - to be real.

Her legs parted as he moved down between them, his palms warmly smoothing over her thighs, and she watched him as long as she could, his fringe falling into his gorgeous eyes, shadows playing across the perfect features of his freckled face as he kissed her leg, dragging his mouth further down.

Her head dropped back to his pillow, one heel digging into his shoulder. His whole room seemed to glow, like a spark of firelight through his copper hair, and she smiled, vision blurring slightly as she allowed her eyes to water, a gentle gasp as his fingers spread across her hipbones and his fringe lightly tickled her stomach. She let herself forget all the lost days, all the sleepless nights, every second she'd been alone, and a perfect feeling of comforting pleasure replaced it.

* * *

Her gorgeous voice filled his old room, a soft moan, a breathless sigh. He could still get lost and forget it was him, that he made her feel this way. That all of it was real, that he was home. Her impossibly soft skin slid under his palms, her left thigh rubbing against his cheek as he tasted her. Her nails lightly raked along his scalp, and he gently shut his eyes.

He felt his own vibrating moan as she arched her back, her body shivering with pleasure _in his bed_. It wasn't just the impact of how much he'd wanted this before - imagining her right there for so many years. It was so much more. It was _every new memory_ , the ones still waiting to be found, far off and distant.

He kissed his way back up her body, so slowly, highly aware of every drifting second. His skin buzzed faintly from mulled wine and an echo of the flickering heat from the fire before, and he ran his tongue up the middle of her chest as gooseflesh peppered her arms.

Her toes curled at his waist, over his belt, reminding him he was still too clothed, and he lifted his head, sitting back to take off his jeans as she watched. A pleasant flush rushed up the back of his neck as he shoved denim and pants off the side of his bed, and she crawled toward him, straddling his lap. Her chest lightly brushed his, and words seemed to drop off his vocabulary as he muttered an incoherent sentence and slid his hands up her bare back.

She smiled, that half-shy and just-for-him one that he reckoned he'd caught a few times back at school, when they were alone or when she'd find his gaze across the Common Room on a quiet night. Why had that never been enough to convince him? It was, just then, as much as anything ever had been.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"Dunno," he smiled back. "Sort of hard to think straight with you sitting on my lap, naked."

"You were thinking something," she grinned back. "I could see you."

"You could see me thinking?"

"Mm."

"That's mental." She shifted on top of his thighs, arms around his neck, and his eyes flicked down to her parted lips. "Reckon I was thinking about Hogwarts."

Her nose wrinkled adorably, and he twirled one of her long curls around his index finger.

"Why?"

"That's where we met."

"Technically, that was on the train," she teased.

"Right. That's where I fell in love with you, then," he said in a slightly raspier voice.

Her expression melted from playful to captivated, nails lightly scraping across the back of his neck as she stared back into his eyes.

"S'where I first imagined doing this." He closed the gap between their lips, kissing her as his hands tangled further in her wild hair. She moaned softly into his mouth, and her knees parted wider, pushing down into the mattress by his hips, rubbing her bare chest against his. They were so close. One tiny adjustment and-

"And this?" she asked between kisses, and he didn't need to answer her as she reached down to touch him, angling her body to meet him as he slid inside her.

* * *

He was finally used to it again, soft mattresses and hot baths. But her light breathing on his neck, her cold feet on his warm legs, her fingertips on his skin - these were the comforting additions he hadn't quite known how to miss. He'd never had them like this before.

She was lying half on top of him, his quilt draped at their waists as he drew abstract shapes on her back with the lightest touch, feeling her gently shivering with pleasure in response.

He had a plan, which he cautiously thought was rather brilliant, in which he'd ask her to marry him on the beach in Australia. They'd talked about going by aeroplane in March, to visit her parents, and he reckoned that should give him enough time to work double shifts with George and buy a ring. When he really thought about it, he knew she'd say yes, and it made his stomach flutter and his heart catch in his throat. Just over a month ago, he'd been starving, alone and afraid in a dark room, waiting to see if he had any chance at all of surviving, much less any chance of being with Hermione again. Now, he fell asleep beside her every night, woke up every morning with her in his arms.

"What is it?" she asked, and he smiled softly at the top of her head.

"I kept thinking, when I was in that sodding room, how I wished I'd just told you… I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Only I know you thought that was over anyway, when you thought I was dead."

"It didn't matter, you know," she whispered to his chest. "Didn't matter I thought you were dead. You were still everything- everything to me." Her voice broke, and he stopped moving his fingertips over her back, spreading his palm quite still across an expanse of beautiful skin between her shoulder blades.

A drizzling rain gently tapped against his window, breaking his silence. He was lacking no confirmation. She loved him as strongly and surely as he loved her. And, unlike so many other things, he didn't even need to believe it for it to be true. All that time, all those years and months and days, he'd feared it wouldn't be enough, that even if he could escape, he'd lose what made him want to be alive.

"Didn't matter to me either," he said hoarsely. "Even if I _was_ dead. Still loved you."

She clutched his arm, then lifted her head from his shoulder to touch her nose gently to his before she kissed him. Pulling back again, he could see her tear-streaked cheeks, though he hadn't heard her crying.

"Never again," she said with conviction, more than he'd thought he could feel. And he knew she was right. His fear from before felt distant and faded, wisping away at the back of his mind.

"Never," he agreed.

She softly laid her head on his shoulder again, nuzzling her face against the side of his neck, and he tugged his quilt up over her back.

He wasn't afraid of the nightmares anymore, though he sensed he'd sleep soundly that night, at least. He could not recall ever in his life sleeping as well as he did with her, when his dreams left him. And maybe he wasn't even afraid of death - not really. There had been a black void of unknown, before he'd come home. Now, he could finally open the book; he could see the rest of their lives in colourful, moving photographs. And he knew that she could, too.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _I think some of you wanted a proposal chapter, but to be honest, I wanted to leave it with plans for the future that I didn't see through - taking the trip to Australia that they were supposed to take before, which would now be an apprehensive thought considering the outcome last time, and the proposal. To me, I wanted to leave it without needing to say what happened next in detail, to give them hope in the midst of their fear. With that said, I do have to admit that I mayyy have a "7 Years, 10 Months, 11 Days" Australia chapter in my docs, and it may or may not ever be finished or posted, but shit, I love storms (if you haven't noticed), and I discovered my originally imagined dates for their Australia trip coincided with a cyclone ripping across the Australian coast, so..._

 _Okay, but seriously, let me group hug all of y'all for making it through to the end here. I once thought I was going to post this final chapter on Boxing Day... 2017. I mean, wtf. And, on that note, see you next time! x_


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